Highlander: A King's Justice
by Timothy.Linnomme
Summary: This is a full length novel in 43 chapters. I write in an adult vein and enjoyed the TV show.Some questions are best left alone, such as the origin of the rules. Full blurb in Prologue If you like this, find me at Amazon under my author name.
1. Prologue

Highlander: A King's Justice

Based on Highlander: The Series

Duncan MacLeod mourns the loss of his cousin, but is prepared to move on. However, there are some questions to which no one should seek the answers, because the answers can be dangerous, such as the origin of the rules...

The rules of Immortal combat are a tradition: No battles on holy ground, no battle in sight of mortals, and no interference once battle is joined. An act of theft and murder is all it takes to send things spinning out of control. Duncan is told to run and hide by his friend, Methos, but MacLeod's never run, though it might be a good time to do so. The murder has not gone unanswered; an immortal with an apocalyptic temper and a penchant for havoc goes after the murderer seeking justice as an 800 year old truce born of blackmail is sundered by the deed and battle with no quarter erupts across three continents. In the midst of new watcher and immortal treachery, will Duncan once more be an arbiter of peace, or will he join the piles of mounting dead?

…My name is Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. I was born in the Scottish Highlands in 1592 and I am immortal. Onward we live, learn, and fight…until the time of the quickening…when only one will be left. We live among you, unnoticed by most. Only by taking the head of another immortal will they truly die. Most of us seek the betterment of mankind, but some do not. Here is to the future and whatever it brings…

My name is….of no consequence to you…yet you assail me with your banal entreaties…you should be thankful that we are no longer among you, that we disappeared some centuries ago, hidden in the mists of time; relegated to frightening tales for children. We are not from your time; we are not even from the time of the youngling pests that wander the earth amongst you. We laughed and reveled in the carnage and havoc we wrought; we served our gods well. The gods we worshipped may long be dead, but we assuredly are not. There is only one immortal of your pestilential sort that knows of us, but he will not dare speak. We also are unknown to the chroniclers that hound you. That is the way we decided it should be, or the way I forced it to be. You mortals never really learned or you learned very well; you were far more deadly to your own then we ever were. Megiddo…..The killing fields of the Somme…Rwanda….Darfur…what need for us to cry havoc? But sooner or later you will rue the day when we come forth yet again, for my enemies are still many and some matters are still unsettled. The matters will be settled; peace has reigned too long to make any of us comfortable. It is not a matter of when they will transgress, but how. Then shall their doom be sealed…I am Brother Timothy…transgress upon me at your own peril!

_**England 1024 AD**_

He awakened just before dawn was about to break. He had no problem doing so; the same routine seven days a week. Tossing aside the thin blanket, he arose and stretched. The mean pallet of straw was still adequately fresh so it would not need to be changed. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dark as he went to his washing bowl. The water had a film of ice across it from the nights chill, but the monk paid it no mind. His sparse underclothing was small protection from the weather, but the thick woolen robe was more than a match for it. He splashed some water on his face, and then dressed. Bare feet padded across the stone flooring; a tinderbox lit the pitiful candle that was the room's only illumination. In a corner of the room, a pair of battered but serviceable sandals rested. His bladder and bowels were full, so resolutely and with no wasted motion, he followed the smell to the lavatory. _It is the Sabbath today,_ the monk thought;_ all the people from the village will be here._ He knew them all, but some better than others. Some like Brother Gregorius he thought were pompous fools, overly serious about their importance. That initiate though, Michel, he was an interesting sort. _Too curious for his and your own good though,_ a voice in his head, malevolent and apathetic, grated at him. _He saw you that one time at least! And he still lives! _I also scared him suitably that one time as well; the monk thought back at the voice, enough will die on their own accord without me adding to the toll. The monk finished his business as he heard the bells toll for the waking of the other Brothers. He knew Michel's sister, Agnetha, would be there, along with her parents, Mary and Eodmund. They were a good sort of people. A shame about the societal rules, though. Agnetha's impertinent questions were a sign of high intelligence; but that would be quashed by the time she was of marriageable age. Before he realized it, he was in the main room where Mass was held. He saw Brother Gregorius acting like his usual pompous assed self, doing his best at controlling everything. Without even thinking, he walked over to a rather plain looking wall. On crudely made pegs on the wall, a sword rested in repose. Despite its obvious metal composition, it reflected very little light. According to the Monastery legend, a heathen barbarian had converted to Christ and built the original Monastery as penance to God, leaving his barbaric ways behind. There were other pegs on the wall. One set held a sturdy but crude looking scabbard, its leather darkened from use and age. The other pegs held a rather strange device made of metal, in the rough shape of a human arm. A patina of rust and dirt covered most of it but 3 strips of metal along the top had no such neglect. The metal of those strips resembled the metal of the sword. It even had a part on the front that looked like some sort of hand guard. The monk rubbed his hand on the blade of the sword. _If only you really knew, Brother Gregorius,_ the monk laughed softly as he saw Gregorius' glare aimed directly at him._ For all you think you know, Brother Gregorius, you know nothing._

Winters pall still gripped the land, though the snow was more a nuisance than a hindrance. A cold, raw wind whistled over the settlement, if it could be called that. The motley collection of crude huts and corrals were well suited for its filthy, scrawny inhabitants. The sole exception: A small building made of what appeared to be a combination of stone, wood, and thatch. Though its crude lines could easily be construed, no wind whipped through this structure. As the first pale gloamings of a false dawn showed in the sky, a small sonorous bell rang out across the area, summoning all to Mass.

Inside the anonymous monastery, it almost seemed warm. Though a bonfire burned in the hearth, the chill still could be felt wherever you stood. The monks' coarse woolen robes, though plain and showing much use, were warmer dress than most of the villagers had. While 2 attended the altar, several more readied the rough hewn pews for their parishioners.

…_it did not matter that a Scandinavian King held thrall over the land of England...not to these men. England meant plunder and women, the weakling Christ priest hoarding their treasure under the sign of the cross. Six ships of raiders set forth, but a violent squall had capsized all but one. 30 of the finest berserkers sat in her…a battered but serviceable longboat…4 others swept overboard earlier and lost to the elements…but their leader was still with them. Screaming foul curses at the Hel god he still worshipped, Olaf Sigvarth manned the tiller. Landfall had to be soon, he thought. He watched his men ready their weapons of destruction…._

"Brother Gregorius, will I get to take part in the Mass?" Michel was only a recently accepted initiate, but worked hard and without complaint.

"You are not yet a brother of this Monastery, but soon you will be able to assist the people in worship" Brother Gregorius was a rather rotund but cheerful sort, ever ready with a joke or a paean to his lord god, but his decisions were never to be argued against, especially from a lowly initiate.

Michel was sad for only a moment, but then he brightened. "May I then draw a relief of the worshippers for their viewing?"

Brother Gregorius laughed a deep chuckling sound. "You are ever the most eager, Michel. Wait until after mass. When your chores are done, we shall see."

…_.Olaf was proud of his band of raiders; all men in the prime of their fighting skill. He was also glad his friend Raegnir was here. Olaf thought for a moment of a time back many, many seasons ago. He had truly died then…he knew it…but what manner of Odin or Hel had occurred…he awoke covered in blood and there was pain…such pain…but the pain rapidly ebbed. Soon he was whole in body and spirit again….but he knew he had died. So had his kinsmen. Screaming out "Draug!" they banished him from the mead hall in a hail of stones and spears. He had wandered alone amongst the fjords and fjelds he remembered for an unknown amount of time. Eventually he discovered what he was, no thanks to another of his kind that tried to kill him. All but Raegnir were ignorant of his gift…or curse? Raegnir was also like him; it was good to have a friend along…still it saddened him that all he took to bride bore no progeny, but that was also in the fate of the gods…_

Slowly but surely, the Monastery filled with the faithful arriving to worship Brother Gregorius beamed at the crowd that was assembled. He had been the senior Monk here for near a score of years. No less than 20 other brothers and initiates were here with him. He was proud of the Monastery and its devotion to saving the parishioners' souls. Even the cloudy and foggy sunrise could do little to dampen his spirits. He looked askance at Michel as the initiate sat off to one side drawing with charcoal on a scrap of parchment. Then a frown crossed his visage. A fellow Monk was staring at the monastery artifact…again. Brother Gregorius tried to remember his name to admonish him, but it slipped his mind. Just then he felt a tug on his woolen robes.

`"Brother, can God see us through the clouds and fog?" It was a little girl, Agnetha, daughter of Eodmund and Mary.

"Yes, my daughter…god sees all and will forgive your sins if you believe in his power."

"God bless you, brother." "

And you too my daughter." Only on the Sabbath were females allowed into the Monastery…its disciples of course were chaste males the lot. His mind once again turned to the fellow monk whose name he couldn't place. There they were again, except this time they were walking around the floor of the Monastery….odd, he thought. The crude sandals the Monks wore made considerable noise on the stone floor, but this monk walked as silent as a ghost. And all the other monks but this one had their hoods thrown back. Oh well, he sighed, maybe later he would deal with the matter…Mass was beginning and Brother Roderick and Brother Demetrius would need his assistance….

…_Their craft beached well and the warriors lost no time heading inland. A group of horses were found and utilized; the two guards watching them were no more, hacked to ruin. With this mobility, Olaf's raiding party, though only 26 strong, was even more formidable. Through the misty fog they galloped down a well used road. They knew that somewhere along the road would be a village…a church…plunder….._

The Mass went off without complications. While the altar boys and initiates helped with the censers and lent their voices to the hymns, Brother Gregorius delivered a thunderous sermon espousing his gods' commandments. Soon the Mass was concluded. The Parishioners stepped forward to thank the Brothers for the sermon and services.

…_at last! The road widened out onto a collection of rank hovels. What few animals__ there were made hardly a sound. As the Vikings thundered through the town they saw the church. Olaf called a halt. He directed Raegnir and 9 of the warriors toward the church while he and the remainder dismounted to inspect the dwellings. With disgust he kicked around the peoples few meager belongings…what a dung heap of a village he thought. Hopefully the church had better pickings._

Brother Gregorius had reached the end of his patience. It was bad enough that Michel was defying him, but now the hooded monk was inspecting the relic again. With an exasperated sigh, he stalked over to that area. "Why must a Brother devoted to the service of god need to constantly view the heretical artifacts? And who are you, Brother?"

"Heretical? There is nothing holy or heretical about them; I wonder why you display them here. This is a peaceful place of God, and these items are meant for anything but peace, Brother. They are interesting though, even if they are a bit out of place"

They both gazed at the wall where the items were ensconced. Near 5 feet long and 3 inches wide, the sword looked massive, though not so much as other weapons of its sort. It almost did not reflect any firelight. Its pommel and hilt were unadorned, except for some runes upon the handle. A line of smaller script ran for a short distance from the hilt. Next to it was what looked like a strange piece of armor, seemingly shaped for an arm. Brother Gregorius sighed. "If you have so much time to ruminate on these items, perhaps you are not fully devoted in your work for god, Brother. I also asked you your name. And why are you the only one hooded in your robes?"

"I choose to be so, Brother. Suffice it to say that I am one as penitent to God as you are. I work hard in this Monastery. Despite that, it is of no consequence in your eyes. It seems only those you favor assist with the important functions here. Maybe you are in need of penitence, Brother, since isn't arrogance a sin?" A frosty smile accompanied the monk's statement.

Brother Gregorius was shocked at this monk's impertinence; he was the senior Monk here! At the same time though, the monk's voice put him ill at ease. Even when not meaning to be so, when this monk spoke, it was like the icy winter wind. He remembered now; Brother Timothy was this monk's name. He also remembered that he was glad this monk was hooded. His eyes….severely discomfiting, but oh, his scribing! No one here could place the written word as well on parchment as this Brother could. Why, he had even repaired some of the illuminated text they used! Other Brothers here avoided this one as best they could. His habits were strange and also disconcerting. At least once a day this monk could be seen washing himself in the cold stream near here regardless of the weather. He also changed his sleeping mat once every week. Gregorius sighed.

"Perhaps you will be able to help with a Mass at some point, Brother Timothy, but you must remember…God chooses his devoted followers to serve him in many ways. Some are born to lead the sinners to the glory of God, others to write of his wishes."

Brother Gregorius felt an internal smugness, as if he had put this monk in his place. Suddenly, the strange Monk jerked erect and scanned the area, as if seeking something.

"As for those artifacts —"Gregorius prated.

"Raiders! Berserkr!" Brother Gregorius whirled around to see no less than 10 fully armed Vikings burst into the Monastery. The one who cried out was chopped down with a heavy axe.

"Give us what gold you keep here, brothers, and we may leave in peace!"

Brother Gregorius was a brave man before God, but there was no way to be brave before these heretics. The village here did not even rate a watchman, let alone any warriors. "We are but a poor Monastery…we have no such valuables as those you seek. You have spilled blood in here and defiled this place of god; please go in peace."

"If you have nothing valuable, where is your brother going?" Brother Roderick was fleeing toward the back of the church with something in hand. "No, Brother Roderick!" Brother Gregorius shouted, but it was too late. A well aimed spear dropped Roderick in a welter of blood. Roughly shoving pews and people aside, the Vikings searched the corpse. "What manner of 'treasure' is this?" Raegnir screamed as he cast some clay rosary beads to the floor. A corroded copper crucifix followed. Several beads shattered. "For this we braved the stormy seas? We will make you pay!" He saw the few females. "Let's take as many of these sheep as we can with us!" Brother Gregorius tried to block Raegnir's path; fortunately he only got the flat part of the axe in his face, but it still knocked him senseless. One Viking seized Agnetha while the others grabbed any younger female they could eye. Eodmund died when he tried to stop them; an altar boy who got in the way was decapitated. That quelled most resistance then and there. What could villagers and unarmed Monks do against hardened warriors? Blood flowed amongst the straw littered on the floor. "Cowards you are, all of you! Fit only to be sheep for the wolves!" The Vikings laughed in unison.

Michel watched in horror as the slaughter ensued. He was the son of Eodmund and Mary, who saw higher glory in consecrating their son to God. Tears flowed unhindered as he wept quietly; he did not want the bearded monsters to see him. Maybe he should have shuddered at Julius' head rolling around on the floor, but he was somewhat in shock. Violent death was no stranger to this society. Life was short, fast and brutal. Any and all old enough to view their surroundings knew this well enough. He would miss Brother Roderick and Brother Gregorius though. There was also that other monk, the one who Gregorius admonished. He was unlike the others. He never meted out punishment to the initiates; as a matter of fact, he rarely paid anyone any mind…..except him. When they had him repair the illuminated bible the Monastery used, he had Michel draw the pictures. But there was that one time. Michel was awakened by some discordant clanging sounds. He snuck down to where the noise was and there he saw the strange monk with the heretical artifacts! He was polishing the sword but cursing at the strange piece of armor. It looked like he had exerted himself earlier. He also was singing softly in a strange tongue. Then when the monk suddenly jerked up his head and looked directly at his hiding place, Michel ran back in fear to his quarters. He never again investigated the strange noises. He was satisfied that that monk didn't treat him as the others did. There was something odd about that monk though, but he decided not to question it; who else here would have taught him to read? Brother Timothy seemed to hold all the written words he saw in reverence.

The people were cowed as the Vikings tossed the general area of the Monastery looking for loot. Another man was killed when he refused to surrender an eating dagger. Two others dragged Brother Gregorius outside. Christ priests, especially the chubby ones, made good slaves or torture victims. Another grabbed Brother Timothy. "Raegnir, what do you think? This one looks too skinny for anything useful!" The Viking guffawed loudly.

"You have made a penultimate error in bringing death to this place. It would be in your best interest to leave and never return. You are not welcome here. And take your filthy hands off of me." The monk twisted out of the Vikings grip easily.

His temper flaring, the Viking again fastened his right hand to the monk's right arm. "Raegnir, he says we made an error visiting here and that we should leave. This one has some fight in him. Maybe we should take him along as well!" The Viking started to pull the monk…and next he was on the floor with his head ringing. "What the hell did you do?" The Viking lunged off the floor in a red fury, his axe upraised in his hand. Suddenly he was screaming as he dropped the axe. It made a muted clank as it hit the floor. The monk's right hand was closed over his left forearm in a grip of iron. The Viking, Ulgalth, felt the bones stress. He punched at the monk with his left hand, but slowly, inexorably, he felt his arm going numb. The monk ignored his blows. "Raegnir, help me!" Ulgalth cried out. An axe from a Viking caught the monk in the back as a spear thrown by Raegnir transfixed his chest. With out a sound or cry, the monk slumped to the floor, finally releasing his grip. Agnetha screamed. "That was the grip of Odin he had!"

"Maybe Ulgalth, you are getting weak?" Raegnir laughed at his riposte. "I saw an extra boat at the shore. Let's take away all these villager sheep with us. That way we can make some profit at least."

"What of this sword on the wall and this piece of armor?" Ulgalth said. He lifted it off its mounting hooks. "Bah! It is too heavy for a sword…just as worthless as this dung heap Monastery!" He tossed the sword to the ground... The sword hitting the ground made a loud, piercing sound, unlike the axe. Then he poked at the piece of armor. "This is worthless junk! What use would this be for anything?" Ulgalth shook his head in disgust. Ulgalth removed the axe from the monk's corpse, but the spear was too deeply imbedded. In the process, the dead monks robe ended up with a bloodstained slash mark in the back and a ragged hole in the front. The Vikings began to herd them outside, but all was not done yet. Agnetha began to cry in loud, wailing sobs; seeing Brother Timothy die was too much. When a Viking slapped her to quiet her, Mary slapped the Viking. The worst was yet to come. With a massive backhand, Raegnir knocked Mary senseless. He swept the Altar clean of objects then proceeded to rip off Mary's clothing. He was first. The others took their turn, laughing as Mary began to scream. Finally, one of the Vikings gutted her. "Here is a sacrifice to your God upon his Altar!" A few of the Vikings urinated on Mary's naked, bloody corpse and the altar. The other monks and initiates disappeared quickly from the main room when the trouble started, so were not herded outside with the other villagers. The raiders staggered the removal of the parishioners. While a few herded out the women and dragged the Christ priest, the others rounded up the remainder and marched them away. In moments, the area was silent and empty except for the dead…..

…_blackness…always blackness at first…then the light again…..and again…and always the pain…searing burning pain…..it was not that he was not used to it…but it had been so long…an axe and a spear….he was fortunate that he lay on his side though. Right hand behind…That wound was already healing….they must have retrieved the axe. The spear though, that was another story. Through the haze of pain, he saw the spear point protruding through his chest. This is going to hurt….carefully positioning his hand around the shaft…a gasp of agony as he broke it…..more blackness…._

Michel quietly emerged from hiding. Brother Timothy was dead too! He would miss them as well, strange habits aside. A spear protruded from his chest. The monastery was nearly empty, the only testament to its recent inhabitance the charnel house that lay around. He had not even shed a tear yet for his mother Mary…her death was violent even by the standards of the age. He dared not even think of drawing this scene. God would surely condemn him to hell if he did. A sharp crack made him scurry back to his hiding place. Where was that from? He looked around and noticed Brother Timothy lying dead on the ground. The spear, the one that had transfixed him….the haft was BROKEN! It had not been before, he was sure of it! Michel's face became pale…

…_once again...the light…..but the pain was even more jolting….lucky that that one did not know what he was….a shame to lose your head over the matter…oops mistake ..Chuckling only made the pain more intense…..by degrees and thankfully without dying again…he extracted the spear haft. It clattered on the ground and he began to heal. He smelled blood and excrement all around. Of all things, Viking raiders. How many did they kill? One of them was an immortal. Just like him…no, not like him. They would not be able to shield themselves from others. He tried to rise but still he was too weak. This will not do….he raised his left hand and pointed it at the wound. Blue lightning crackled from his fingertips and flowed into the wound, healing it much faster than normal. Had he not been concentrating on that task, he would have noticed more then one set of eyes saw what he had done….Soon, he felt whole again…_

All of the nightmares of hell and brimstone seemed alive in Michel's mind. The monk was DEAD! But no; the strange monk bled pools of blood, but he extracted the spear…he saw it! And the blue lightning! He saw that too! He would miss his parents and Agnetha and Brother Gregorius, but he had to get away from the demon, he had to. As he retreated, his feet skittered on a small stone….

_Slowly he got up from the floor and looked around. The carnage! Why? Brother Roderick, an altar boy, 3 male villagers….he shook his head. Thoughts reverberated in his mind…_

…_.fool….coward….you brought this on yourself….trying to be what you are not…_

"_I am a man of God! Of peace!" he screamed out_

_The voice in his head was filled with contempt…god? What god? The puerile weakling one who burned you? To think you have forgotten what you were…..you still weep at the plight of the filthy mortals….Ardis never did….he would have sought justice…killed them for their affront…for even their very presence…._

The monk suddenly became aware of his surroundings. Some noise towards the back had jolted him out of his reverie, though only momentarily. He chuckled and shook his head, trying to escape the battle occurring in his mind. How long ago had it been since he first put together the monastery. It seemed the right thing to do at the time; construction instead of destruction. Over 400 years, he mused. At first no one lived here but himself. It had taken much work and force at times to construct this edifice. Paganism ran rife still in the 600's. One day though, he saw a crude hut erected near the monastery. Hut after hut followed. Soon a small but thriving village was in existence. The villagers named it for some other saint in the lexicon…Albans. He had paid it no real mind though. He did his best to minister to them, considering the short, miserable lives they led. Hearing confessions, burials in holy ground for those who were penitent and writing. That was his most fond task. He could sit for hours unmindful of the elements of nature scribing what he chose or what was required. He had heard of raiding parties for centuries, but they had never been this brazen. And who ever would think in this day and age? London was not so far away. But he knew a Viking held thrall over this land ever since the Edmund King had died. He raised himself fully erect and looked about. Even now, the monks who had hidden themselves away were venturing out, saying prayers over the dead, and cleaning up. That is, most of them were. Several were staring at him with expressions that ranged from incredulous to grim indeed. _The fact that they are what they are may make some things easier for them to handle. _His toe struck something hard and unforgiving on the floor. With a curse, he looked down. The sword that was on the wall lay at his feet. Mindless of its weight, he picked it up and replaced it on the wall. After he did so, there still were three monks staring at him. But who had made that noise. He headed towards the sound. Nothing was there but an initiate by the name of Michel. He remembered that this one had a penchant for beautiful drawings, good enough to be included in the Monastery's' bible. _Little do you know, Gregorius_. He never bothered telling Brother Gregorius of the origin of much of Michel's work. Michel appeared to be intently working on something now. The monk wandered over. However crude the initial rendering was, the picture was of a monk removing a spear from his chest!

Because the villagers had to walk, it took a little time before Raegnir and his cohort made it to the ships. Cries of greeting were intermingled with taunts and gibes towards the prisoners

"Good haul, Raegnir!" Olaf boomed. "Was there any treasure in their church?"

"Bah! Nothing at all…some clay beads and a copper cross! But these thralls may yet net us some profit. I saved the best for last though."

"The best?"

"Yes, a fat Christ priest and a few females. I will need to make another trip to retrieve them, and then we can go."

"You are a good friend Raegnir. Take Ulgalth and some others back with you to make sure they are not hiding anything and to retrieve the females. I will secure these slaves and prepare the boats. No touching the women…yet!"

They both laughed at that comment as Raegnir barked orders to his men. "We will search again, but I doubt these sheep are hiding anything." This was the last time Olaf would see Raegnir alive.

Brother Gregorius regained his senses. He tasted blood as he spat out a tooth and attempted to rise from the ground where the Vikings had dragged him. The world spun for a moment, then stabilized. His nose hurt and his face ached from the blow, but he set aside the pain for the moment. He turned at the sound of soft weeping to find Agnetha and several other women in a group. Their ankles were shackled with strips of leather, almost like cattle. He was unbound, but probably because he had been knocked senseless. The dawn ever so slowly crept up on the village as the Brother approached the women. "Is everyone all right here?"

"As best as can be Brother, until they take us away, but you probably knew that though" Aegnes was older woman nearing her sunset of child-bearing years.

"Brother, they killed my mother and father! Why?" Agnetha wept bitterly.

"It is gods will as to what happens to man on this earth, my daughter. Only by believing in his power will we get to heaven in the afterlife."

"Then God is not as powerful as you say? If he was, he would have punished those men!"

"Hush, Agnetha! You should never say such sacrilegious things!"

"Perhaps they may send rescuers yet, eh Brother?" Bertae was fat for the times, but still of child-bearing age.

"It is good to pray for deliverance, my child, but this location is of little consequence as things go. We shall pray for deliverance to our Lord God Jesus. He will hear our entreaty if we show the utmost piety." Brother Gregorius proceeded to lead the small group in prayer.

Michel urinated on himself. He could not help it. The demon was standing right over him. The scrap of parchment he had used to draw the monk's devil-aided recovery had been torn away by the monk and burnt in a candles flame. "You will not be drawing what you saw, initiate!" the monk intoned in a voice as cold as the winter wind.

"But I saw you—"

"You best get it out of your head what you saw. There are those who would kill you if they saw what you did and I as well, so for your own safety, you will forget what you observed! Do you understand me?"

"They killed my father and mother, and took my sister away!" Michel started weeping anew, oblivious to the monk's ominous tone of voice.

"Where is Mary? I do not see her." The monk said more gently.

"She is on the altar where they defiled her." Michel looked directly at the monk. "I know what I saw! You were DEAD! Are you a demon from hell come to punish us? What are you? The other monks make such noise when they walk, but you walk silently like a spirit. They quaked in fear at those heretics, but you showed no such fear. Who are you? What are you?"

The monk looked at Michel. "I am Brother Timothy, that is all…I am not a demon or a saint….and you must promise me…no more pictures of what you just drew; the knowledge is too dangerous. Do you understand me?" He shook the boy by the shoulders to emphasize the point.

The initiate acquiesced in abject terror. As Brother Timothy walked away from Michel, two other monks sidled towards the initiate, keeping their eyes upon Brother Timothy.

Brother Timothy quickly headed towards the altar of worship, but the cries of horror preceded his view of what was on the altar. Mary lay there, open-eyed in death, her face a rictus of horror. Even though the body was growing cold, it still steamed in the chill. Rivulets of blood and urine, in some cases mixed in with semen, flowed off the altar to stain the straw and stone beneath. While some monks stared in horror at the sacrilege, others fell to their knees and wept…all but two…The other one was glaring directly at Brother Timothy

…_see. they care not for your god. Why should you…vengeance from god will never happen, but you can exact vengeance….._

There was no cause to justify this, Brother Timothy thought sadly. She was a good woman.

…_do you not miss the cries of the dying as you sent them from earth? Tell me you do not..and I will leave you be…_

I am a man of god…of peace! Brother Timothy was assailed by the qualms of conscience and the battle inside his head. _That youngling dared invade your sanctum and desecrate it…..that kind only understands one sort of peace….the peace that comes when you kill them. They can not stand against you. You know this…._ He thought for a moment. Answer slaughter with even more slaughter? Would it really solve anything? _..and when that youngling arrives at his home, he will know you are weak and more will come to spread even more ruin….. _ He sighed, long and low. Despite being no stranger to death, at times he still wept for some of them. _They all die…..while you live on…why waste emotion on them? _

_Because I have learned to care for some of them, it pains me at times. Does that make me weak?_

He felt a tug on his robe and turned to see Michel "Will you find my sister Agnetha? They took her away with the other people. If she is around, I will not be so inclined to draw pictures of what I see." His eyes were red from crying, but no more tears flowed. Instead, his eyes held a glittering sort of hardness; the blackmail in his plea was baldly apparent.

_How quick__ly they learn the ways of man_, Brother Timothy sighed. _ ..but if they are slaughtered to a man…they will avoid this place like the plague…call it wergilds-bane…you will be left in peace….. _Brother Timothy had his hood in place, so the only feature discernable was his mouth. He mouthed a prayer and crossed himself as close to the defiled altar as he could. Some monks deliberately blocked his path to it though. He prayed as hard as he could for the inner peace that he knew was rapidly slipping away. _ 'Take up the sword!'..._the voice in his head was…excited?_ 'Show them the price they pay for transgression….kill them! Slaughter them! _In his mind, the laughter was not of mirth, but of ruin.He failed to notice Michel looking at him in awe, or three monks looking as grim as could be as they conversed amongst their selves. A decision had been reached in his mind, though. He saw no way to fully disguise his intentions, or to rationalize his actions. The fury he had attempted to quell was boiling over. He couldn't ignore the voice inside him anymore. There were too many mortals present, but it couldn't be helped. He brushed away his hood, revealing rather mundane features, but with features twisted in fury. The monk's eyes almost burned with the emotion.

Michel stepped back, once again fearful. Fortunately, Brother Timothy's gaze was directed at the other monks. "Cleanse this corruption from the Altar and re-consecrate it. Perform the rites on Mary and give her a Christian burial along with the others."

Brother Leopold was one of the three monks who had a grim demeanor upon their countenance. "What manner of creature are you so as to DARE take refuge in a house of God! I saw what you did and you will not corrupt the initiate Michel with your devil spawn ways!"

Brother Timothy only paid Brother Leopold the smallest amount of attention. "Did you hear me? You will cleanse this altar and give her a proper burial."

Brother Leopold was joined by Brother Kenneth. Brother Kenneth had a container of holy water and a cross. "Brother Leopold asked you a question, Brother Timothy. You fall dead upon the floor with a spear through you, yet moments after extracting it, you are once again whole? And what of the demonic power that came from your left hand? That assuredly is of the devils work; it is nothing from the God in heaven."

_It seems that others saw what Michel did,_ he thought. There was no way to hide what he was now. He turned towards the two monks. "I am not 'demon spawn' as you say. I am as penitent to God as all of the people here."

The two brothers weren't convinced. They were joined by the third monk with the accusatory stare. "You have upon your person the marks of wounds that should have killed you, yet you now DARE walk amongst those of us who ARE truly of GOD! I say begone from this place of God, spawn of Lucifer!" At this point, Brother Kenneth sprinkled him with the holy water and began mouthing a paean to dispel evil. The other monks were ranged in a loose sort of arc behind the three that accused Brother Timothy.

Brother Timothy finally noticed the chill of the air as it found the rents in his robe. He looked at his bloodstained robe and the holes in it. Brother Timothy laughed softly as he stared at his three accusers, but there was nothing cheerful about it. The three monks actually backed away from him. Michel was looking at the ground as Brother Timothy spun away from the monks and headed towards the wall where the sword was. That was how he walked so quietly! His sandals and the others only had front straps, thus the heel part was loose, causing the noise. But Brother Timothy's sandals were not only bound at the heel, they were of a thinner material. Was he wearing a warrior's sandal? Michel thought. No, it could not be. The monks were peaceful servants of god, ministering to the masses as best as they could. Brother Timothy pulled off his robe and left it in a heap on the floor. Copious amounts of blood had fouled his underclothing in addition to the damage from the attack earlier. A murmur of voices ensued as he first removed the strange armor from the wall; the three monks were attempting to gain more support. They rose in pitch to some gasps and even a scream. The catches were little rusty but still worked. The armor fastened over his left arm as if it was made for it. When he was done, his left arm from shoulder to wrist was covered by the item. The odd-shaped front section nearly covered his left hand. Blue-tinged lightning sparked and stuttered along its length.

"Brother, what are you doing? We are men of God, of Peace…..how did you know how that was to be mounted?" Brother Hroald was a better sort than Brother Leopold. Brother Timothy was ignoring everyone by this time; he was concentrating upon his task.

Brother Leopold pulled out a crucifix and thrust it at Brother Timothy as he openly mouthed a Latin Paean. "Begone, scion of hell! I know you for what you are. You were dead on the floor yet you dare to rise amongst the living?" The sheep-like demeanor was gone from Brother Leopold's visage. He was in his element, or so he thought. Brother Hroald's face had lost all semblance of color; he slowly backed away from Brother Timothy, crossing himself in the process. More than a few others did the same thing.

"You are men of God; to this Monastery you must be faithful. You would best consider this to be a matter of faith, for you would not understand the truth of this matter." The last sentence was spoken with the same icy chill as Michel only recently heard.

"I call you an agent of the Devil! Be gone from this place of worship! Do not assail us with your demonic entreaties!"

Brother Timothy stalked over and simply knocked Brother Leopold down; the crucifix fell from Leopold's grasp. "Once, long ago, I was not a man of the Christ God, and I also discovered many of men to be fools like you. If Mary is not ready for burial by the time I return, I will hold you to blame, Brother Leopold. You are no better than some of the Druids I knew, and I have seen such as you prate on so piously without understanding a thing!" As if to emphasize his displeasure, a jolt of lighting from Brother Timothy struck Brother Leopold, causing a collective gasp. He turned to the other monks "I said _you _are men of God." Brother Timothy laughed bitterly at that remark "Tend to that which God needs to be here in this place of worship; I intend to bring our parishioners back to the fold." There was no more time to waste. He only hoped he would be in time so he could deal with the other fools who forced such a matter on him. First he mounted the crude looking scabbard device so that it rested on his back rather then his hip. Finally, he removed the sword from the wall and flipped it in the air…..grasping it by the hilt as it fell down. Several monks gasped in horror as Brother Timothy began to swing the sword through the air, its sheer size causing a whistling sound to come from it as it cut the air. But it was not wielded as a symbolic artifact…it was wielded as a sword….a heavy, dark-colored, deadly sword even blacker than iron. And even a neophyte could tell if one was suited for that sort of skill. The way Brother Timothy cleaved the air with the sword spoke of no novice. With a final flourish and a soft laugh, he swung the sword around in an arc. The sword made a solid sound of sliding into the scabbard...mounted on the monks back. After putting the soiled robe back on, a shrug of his robes and the sword seemed to disappear into its folds. Once again, the monk raised his hood. "The defilers will learn the price of transgression upon which is mine." Brother Timothy spun around and stalked out of the Monastery, steps still as silent as a spirit, but his laugh this time was almost maniacal as more lightning played across his frame in fits and starts. When Brother Timothy stopped laughing, strings of unintelligible speech erupted from him spoken in a bitter tone. Several of the Brothers crossed themselves and prayed, while others were conversing amongst themselves. The word 'druid' was mentioned, but several of the monks decided to do what Brother Timothy had said, ignoring those who protested. Yet another picked up a broken, bloody spear haft and head from the ground. Brother Leopold arose from the floor, white-faced in fear and shaken. Rather than try to grasp what had occurred, he decided to shrug it off, shaking his head. To his dying day, though, he considered Brother Timothy with only guarded contempt; he would always view him as something unholy. All of them at some point looked at Brother Timothy's retreating figure with fear….except for one.

Despite the fact that children can be scarred from bad sorts of exposure, they also can be the most resilient to it as well. He knew what he had seen. Perhaps it was to his advantage that he rarely was around adults; the monks only assigned him chores, and besides Mass, he led a rather solitary existence. _That monk died…but he pulled out the spear and healed himself._ That was matter-of-factly accepted into his world paradigm. The_ monk invoked some blue lightning to assist the healing._ Okay, that was accepted too, _God did not strike him down for praying at the altar, so the devil must not be involved. He was modest about what had happened, pious at the altar, and seems to possess the wrath of St. Michael._ That was accepted into his paradigm for the plain reason of blatant ignorance that reigned on high at the time. _The Monks are peaceful men of god, but he wielded that sword as if he knew how to use it._ In the mind of a 10 year old child inculcated with the teachings of mother church these statements could lead to only one possible conclusion: _Brother Timothy is a Saint that came to deliver us from the defilers._ It fit in so well with his paradigm; he never bothered to question the incongruities of his reasoning. He knew he would be lax in his duties if he did not draw at least one picture of the Monastery's Savior. As quietly as possible, he also left the Monastery; not even his fear of the monk would sway him from what he must do for the sake of God, if not his monastery.

A steady but light drizzle fell from the clouds as Brother Timothy purposefully walked away from the Monastery. Raiders of any sort were not hard to understand. Their goal was to be in and out as quickly as possible, before reinforcements arrived. Thus, their staging area could not be far off. Considering his estimate of the size of the party, there were too many captives for only one trip. _,, you should have killed that initiate…HE SAW!...it bodes no good this 'mercy' of yours…. _Brother Timothy tried to put the voice out of his head, but for the moment he was not successful. _..he draws pictures well..he SAW your face and he knows your secret…that was blackmail he used!..._

"Should I also kill all the Brothers there too? They may be massively ignorant, but not all of them are stupid. Soon there will be enough slaughter to satisfy even you….do not question my purposes." Brother Timothy said aloud to himself.

_..you grow weak…too long since you screamed out the name of the battle god…._ Without even being aware of it, Brother Timothy was scanning for the telltale jolt of the one Viking; not enough to let them know he was near, but enough for the opposite effect. He stopped and re-affirmed his information. Yes, there he was, returning for the last of the captives probably. The hoof beats told an additional story though. In addition to the other immortal, there were others. This could become very ugly, he thought. Did he still have the skill? It had been hard to practice recently; Michel had caught him once. He put all doubt out of his mind. Doubt was the enemy. He mouthed a sort of prayer but not to the Christ God, but to a much older one lost in time. _Inspire me, Morvran, for what is to come._ I will show you weak, he chuckled at the voice in his head as he picked up his walking pace. A melody lost in the realms of time came to his mind and he voiced it in a sort of singsong language as he walked through the mists and the sprinkle of rain. Though the mist blocked his vision, it also blocked theirs as well. He moved silently on his feet, all senses aware; he had not lost his hunters sense…..

Brother Gregorius' pains resided to a dull ache as he concluded his prayer with the women. Despite women being such weak creatures, God had to watch over them as well. Such was the responsibility of the Church. He gave a resigned sigh as he heard the sound of hoof beats. He only hoped that the women would be true to their god even while they were being defiled. He himself was celibate, but through god he knew the ways of men and women. "All of us must be quiet now, lest they visit further injury upon us." He watched the Vikings come to a halt and dismount. They had left three others to guard the small group; with Raegnir's group, there were thirteen Vikings in all. The guards answered their hails when called, but Raegnir still made them stay where they were just in case there was an armed cohort nearby. "Get on your feet all of you! Be quick about it or else!" For emphasis, one of them kicked Brother Gregorius in his ample backside and guffawed. The women and the Monk quickly complied, but a strange sound came out of the mist; it sounded like choking or something. Agnetha stopped where she was upon hearing the sound; she swore she saw something in the mist.

"What was that, Brother Gregorius?" She pointed over the monk's shoulder where she had seen …something. Ulgalth had remounted and he trotted over. A rough hand knocked Agnetha to the ground. "Silence her, Christ fool, or I will!"

One of the other women gasped as another of Ulgalth's cohort laid his hands on her. "Ulgalth, this one has plenty of flesh on her. She will be much fun!"

"You heard what Olaf said, fool!" Raegnir cuffed the exuberant Viking. "We get them home, and then we can have our fun!"

Agnetha tugged on Gregorius' sleeve. "Look, Brother. Someone is here!"

She pointed behind him. With a sigh, Brother Gregorius turned around….yes, there was a monk that looked like they were walking toward them and the Vikings, but as quickly as he was there, a shift of the mist and he was gone. What did that monk hope to accomplish? There were thirteen raiders here. He would have admonished them for their foolishness at another time, but he convinced himself there was nothing in the mist. He laughed to himself, _the innocence and imagination of children._ He felt secure in his knowledge….for the moment.

Brother Timothy walked slowly through the mist; it was fortunate for him that he did so, because he was almost on top of one of the guards before he knew it. He reacted nearly as fast as he did long ago; he snapped the guard's neck with his left hand. He dropped the body with disdain and slowly walked on, ears picking up the noise of where at least one group was. He saw the other two guards without them seeing him. He hit one in the head with a sizeable rock and then used their sword to kill the third one. He dragged the corpse of the third guard with little effort, making only the slightest of sounds…..

He slowly was able to discern where the other raiders were. He counted ten of them. That plus the three made thirteen in all. If there were 10 here…..20? 30? It could not be helped, though. The die was cast. Slaughter or death, it was his choice. He knew what choice he made, though. He saw the one strike Agnetha through the mist; knew now he would not be sorry for the coming conflagration.

He walked up near the group, near enough to cast the corpse of the guard on to the ground with enough noise to get everyone's attention, and then faded into the mist. Ulgalth was the first to react.

"Raegnir, one of the guards is dead!"

"Where are the other two, Ulgalth?" Ulgalth called out their names, but he got no answer. The other Vikings began to get uneasy as they did their best to see through the mist. The women and the monk were forgotten as Raegnir organized his ten companions. While Ulgalth stayed near him, the other eight began to walk wider and wider circles around the captives. They found the two other guards quickly enough. The eight Vikings slowly backed away towards where the captives were, dragging the bodies of the fallen and gave Raegnir the information they had discovered. Raegnir raised his axe and moved towards the captives with menace in his eye, but another Viking gave a shout and pointed. It looked as if the figure was stepping out of the mist. They slowly walked towards the Vikings with their hood up over their head saying not a word…they seemed to be singing in some strange sort of language…..

The Vikings had only posted three guards to watch their captives; who was going to come to the captives' defense anyways? Now, the three guards were dead and someone garbed as a monk was there in the mist. They were singing a moment ago, but in some strange language, but now they were silent. His silence gave the ten left time to regroup. They all unlimbered weapons of ruin and destruction as they charged toward the silent figure. The first two to reach him were the next to die…

He had never, ever considered battle theory when he fought. He had never really had a teacher for the finer points of swordplay. He had taught himself at least the rudiments; this sword was unlike even the 2 handed broadswords that were becoming so common now. It was heavier than those, yet not quite as massive in size. Countless hours of practice had gone into learning to wield it, and then even more. What rudiments he had learned were refined as he saw fit, or as he saw usefulness. He never lost an opportunity to watch other techniques at play, if only to find their weaknesses. The sword was heavy, but deliberately crafted so. After all, had he not forged it himself? The strength of a blacksmith was behind this item; lighter weapons seemed unsuited for his muscles. His speed with the weapon was laboriously learned as well. A two handed sword had its pluses and minuses. Heavier blows could be dealt, at sacrifice of speed, or so people thought. He would never be as fast as some of the lightly armed contingents he had seen, but with the longer reach and a heavier weapon, that was offset by the fact he could kill such a person with one blow. Due to millennia of practice with the sword, he disregarded its weight; extra muscle was developed, making him deceptively quick in his movements; in no way did he wield his weapon in a ponderous manner. The sword was slower to draw, and he carried no shield, but that had been partially offset though: the arm greave he wore. It made the arm somewhat less maneuverable but it served as a shield while leaving the left arm otherwise unencumbered. He had devised the greave on his own solely for that purpose; left arm to block (if needed), both hands to wield sword (often needed). Also, the covering over his left hand made it so he could rest the tip of the blade there, a sort of 'en garde' stance. The sword itself was of a very unique quality; the source of its metal would not be believed; nothing short of steel could even come close to matching it, and even steel could not stand against it for long. It was time to preach to the unbelievers, the black humor of that statement almost made him smile.

Good, he thought, two of them assail me first. He was not stupid though; he knew there were others here with them. He sized up the two warriors. He did so not for purposes of battle. This would be a slaughter. Best not to leave things to chance though, he thought, overconfidence could yet be my undoing. He stopped then reached both hands behind his right shoulder. _No rest position this time, _he thought, _killing blow needed first._ The sword slid out of its sheath, looking even darker than the semi-darkness surrounding it. A quick shift of the hilt, and the draw became a 30 pound whistling harbinger of doom. The warrior on his right was decapitated in a spray of gore. Then the sword sheared through the other warrior's left arm and went half way through his chest cavity, also killing him instantly. A powerful, swift kick freed the sword. _Now go to rest position._ With the hilt grasped firmly in his right hand, the left hand loosely held the sword near its tip. His robe now soaked in gore, he advanced towards the other Vikings with malice in his purpose. Almost unbidden, an old battle song burst softly from his lips….only the captives could clearly hear it…he paused in his singing to laugh at the death he had caused. It was like the purest of elixirs as it thrummed through his being. Yes, it felt so good….

Both Raegnir and Ulgalth were in shock: where moments before were two warriors now there were 4 pieces of warrior on the ground. Where a moment ago the monk seemed docile they now held in their hands a massive sword…the very sword on the wall of that Monastery….it had to be! That item was too heavy to be more than an ornament? That ornament had just killed two of his men with ONE blow! And the monk was laughing! The glint of metal from the monks left hand…that piece of armor! Was this a Christ Warrior? Was this the reward the priests got from devotion to their god? The monk approached them at a steady walk, his intentions clear. It was then they noticed the monk was singing softly yet again…this was no paean to their god in Latin….it was a different language, not even Latin, but something even older it seemed; not quite intelligible, though. Raegnir felt a stirring of unease. Somewhere….

Brother Gregorius' paradigm was under heavy assault. First, the monk is appearing out of the mist with murderous intent, and then actually following through with their intention. Agnetha's assertion did no good either. Was this monk in the mist before? He laughed at Agnetha's vivid imagination and most assuredly thought the monk a fool being here, since all he could do would be to join the other prisoners in their fate. _That monk just killed two raiders with ONE sword blow! It is the sword on the wall! They also are wearing that piece of strange armor!_ He made an attempt to wipe away some spattered blood that was on his face. _They wield that sword as if it was a toy. Is it their sword?_ A voice in his head giggled at him. That is impossible, those artifacts are old. _Why is he singing in that heathen tongue then! _Brother Gregorius was a weak sort of human; omnipotent within his life paradigm, but completely defenseless outside of it. What happened next would destroy Brother Gregorius' paradigm for good and send him into insanity; adults are not as adept at dealing with the unexplainable in some ways.

The train of thought of Raegnir lasted only for seconds. "Kill him!" he screamed at his remaining cohort. The six others had already unlimbered weapons and were in process of attacking this murderous monk. Ulgalth lagged slightly in back of the others waiting for an opening….

While Brother Gregorius fought with his sanity and the other women screamed and cowered, Agnetha stared at the monk with a beatified look. _Maybe god does care,_ she thought, _but why are my parents dead? God brought back the monk, why not my mommy and daddy?_ She was also spattered in blood, but she paid it no mind. The monk was simply too mesmerizing, despite a strange feeling of unease she had. Even now, she observed bluish lightning crackle across the monks figure. She rubbed her filth-covered arm; why did she feel so uncomfortable? The monk was now moving at a run towards the other Vikings, sword out and ready….

He snapped his sword out of rest position as the warriors thundered towards him. He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet as his run picked up speed. He wasn't about to stop or even slow down. By ones and twos he reduced his attackers to corpses upon the ground. An axe clipped his shoulder. He did not feel it. Raegnir and Ulgalth were shocked when the monk blocked two attackers at once on opposite sides. The one warriors axe rang against his armored arm. The sword came around to decapitate one Viking, and then it continued as a jab that killed the second. The monk was…_laughing! _A sharp gust of air combined with the angle at which he stood allowed his hood to fall back from its usual upright position. Then the drizzle turned into more of a rain, cleansing some of the gore from him. It was then he also felt a momentary twinge…._another one?..._but only one of his foes was like him…._the jolt was coming from the group of captives; this was something he hadn't expected…_

Agnetha could only stare in awe. It was Brother Timothy! He had come to save us! _You saw him die though,_ a voice in her head said matter-of-factly, _does it not bother you that he is whole again?_ She thought about that for a moment. For some reason, the incongruity failed to even faze her. She almost felt sorry for the bad men even. The feeling of unease still was with her though, but she paid it no mind. She had been through a lot in these past few moments. They had killed her mother and her father. There were 10 of them there, but now only two remained. Eight of them were dead, killed by Brother Timothy. She looked at his face, but only for a moment. Fear gripped her momentarily in its icy chill. Brother Timothy was smiling, but it was not a pleasant smile….it was _…dangerous…..a man of God can most assuredly not be such if they are willing to inflict such violence._ They deserve it, she screamed at the voice in her head. Due to a large part her childish innocence, the incongruities of what she saw had no effect on her psyche. She simply accepted what she saw at face value. The other females were simply in shock. They also had an effective way to deal with this anomaly: block out its existence. If they had dared accept any of it, they would be as worse off as Brother Gregorius. The very fact that the Brother had rudimentary knowledge of some things led only to the doors of insanity. He could not accept what he had seen, and there was no way for him to block it out. _Brother Timothy wields the heretic artifacts with a skill nowhere near a novice. He slaughtered eight or more skilled warriors in a short period of time. He sings in a pagan tongue long dead. He laughs at the destruction he has caused. He is ruin and havoc and destruction! Flee from him lest he mark you with death! _Brother Gregorius giggled out loud to himself. His eyes held the illumination of insanity as drool seeped from a corner of his mouth. He was on the raving train of incongruity with no way of getting off.

Brother Timothy had paused only for a moment. Once he determined that he was still reasonably hale, he cast his eye on the two remaining Vikings. "Look at what you have done here today! You brought rapine and slaughter to this monastery!" Ulgalth looked aghast at the monk then looked around. Eleven of the finest Vikings he ever knew; now they lay dismembered and slaughtered on the ground. Then he saw amidst the welter of crimson the ragged hole the spear had made. He suddenly knew there would be a slash on the back of the robe as well.

"You were dead! You are no Christ Priest! You fight like a demon from Hel!" He screamed in fear and fury. "You are a Hel warrior hiding in monks robes!"

"No, I wished to live in peace, but you sundered that," the monk replied in a voice as chill as the winter wind. To add to Ulgalth's apprehension, the monk was now speaking in a Nordic tongue. "Now pay for your transgression!" Brother Timothy noticed that Ulgalth wielded his axe in his left hand. Interesting, he thought. The axe, however finely made, was only of base iron.

"You were dead! I know not what sorcery you use, but I will send you back to Hel where you belong!" With a yell, Ulgalth attacked. Shifting his weight to his left side, Brother Timothy slammed into Ulgalth's buckler, sword already on an intercept path towards his axe. When the two weapons collided, there was a cacophonous screech of metal, then a solid thump. Even steel suffered under the metal of the monk's sword, let alone any baser metal. The top fourth of Ulgalth's axe had been sheared through. Ulgalth may have complained about the damage, but he was missing his head above the bridge of his nose. Brother Timothy pushed the corpse away, heedless of the body or the fresh gouts of crimson. There was one more to kill here…

There was one other viewing the slaughter that was not really affected in a bad way. Michel had had the foresight to keep parchment and charcoal always around his person; you never knew when you could create a drawing to the Glory of God. There was no doubt in his paradigmal view: Brother Timothy was a Saint. He was a protector of the Monastery from the heretics who defiled it. He had watched 9 Vikings die in the course of minutes; most of the deaths were as gory as could be. That sword must have some holy power; none of the heretics can stand against it, he thought. As ignorant as he was of even basic metallurgy though, it did not occur to him that the swords' metal might have something to do with the one sided battle. Quickly, he sketched rough drawings of what he had seen so far. Yo_u will NEVER be burning these in a candle's flame, monk! _ Michel was resolute on this fact. He would hide these drawings if he had to, but he would never part with them. This assuredly was the path to the Glory of God. Unmindful of the penetrating rain that now fell even more persistently, he sketched like one possessed. He was possessed, though; in his mind, he was witnessing concrete proof of god's wrath.

Raegnir was in a quandary. Also, an unknown dread seeped into his bones. By all measures that he could conceive, he had the right to flee in utter terror. Of the thirteen Vikings here, he was the only one left alive; the other members of his cohort were bloody charnel on the ground; the monk had reaved a bloody path through them, but the monk showed no injury. With his hood back, his features were easily discernible; they were nothing of note. _Well, he looks like a monk_, he thought, _but he fights like a Hel warrior._ The sword that Ulgalth said was too heavy the monk wielded like a toy. Ulgalth's axe was base iron, but that sword had sheared through it as if it was not there; not even the best steel could do that! The strange piece of armor the monk wore on their left arm was as effective as a buckler if not more so. Never had he seen weaponry or armor the likes of this. The monk was not staring at him, though, he was staring _through _him. If he fled, then he would get to explain to Olaf why his men were dead and how they were killed. Wait! The monks robe had a ragged hole in the front. And Raegnir recognized the Nordic tongue the monk spoke! That was an older dialect than was current, but still recognizable. That hole was there before they started slaughtering! Hel warrior, bah! The monk was like him, an immortal. With this new information in mind, fleeing was simply not an option now. He dismounted his horse, mounted his best buckler, and hefted his best steel axe that he owned. Still something nagged at his consciousness. _Why am I hesitating?_

He watched the immortal dismount his horse and prepare for battle. He glanced down at his robe; there wasn't a spot not drenched in blood. His sword was at rest position now, but even he could see the bluish lightning crackling along its length. _You know, don't you?_ He softly spoke at the sword. The lightning also began to evince itself along the greave he wore. There was no real way to help it; his fury boiled at a white hot level. As such he had no control over it. It was inconveniencing at times, but it also marked him as one to be avoided at all costs. _Another ignorant youngling pest, too stupid to realize his mistake…._

"You will not find me easy a mark as my cohort! You are no Hel warrior! We are one and the same…immortal! You do not frighten me! Why was I not able to sense you, though?"

"I wished to be left alone….I do wonder if one of the defilers sent you here, though." One advantage he had over the less seasoned immortals was that he could hide to an extent what he was; he could approach a youngling without them even knowing he was immortal. This time the monk made no effort to block his identity. He smirked as Raegnir staggered from the onslaught. "I suppose not…you are not of them. They usually send a lot more than one." He as quickly shielded himself as he laughed.

Raegnir recovered in a moment but stopped to think:_ what the hell was that?_ He had felt other immortals close by before, but never a sensation like that. It had felt like a combination of the worst sickness plus a crushing weight on his skull. And once again, he simply could not sense the monk._ What in hell was going on?_ "I am Raegnir Sjalffson. I have walked this earth for over 1000 years, but have never met one like you. You hide like a woman in a Monastery!" Raegnir laughed loudly, and then looked at the women and the priest. "And you know of course, after I win, I will kill those sheep. They know about us, and that can not be tolerated." Slowly, but with deadly intent, Raegnir moved towards the monk. He had seen what sort of weapon that sword was and what it could do; because of that, he was justifiably wary.

"What ever the battle gods decree, be it Morvran or Badb; I answer to them now because of you." Brother Timothy cared not about his opponents' prowess in battle, but he studied what they wielded instead. A steel and oak buckler and what appeared to be a fine axe of steel. _The Vikings did make the finest weapons, or did,_ he mused. The rest of Europe was catching up, though rather piecemeal. He made an attempt to control the quickening fire, but was not completely successful. More bluish tinged lightning now crackled across the greave and up and down the sword.

_ The demon and the heretic will now fight for our souls and the chance to devour them! _Brother Gregorius laughed hysterically. _The monk demon is speaking in that pagan tongue again. Maybe he could convert the heretic to God!_ At least the heretic was human. He knew how to stop the demons from claiming him, but how would he protect the others? Little Agnetha was the most vulnerable to the demons. He needed to protect at least her. He grabbed at Agnetha to shield her from the demons, but with an unholy oath she twisted away and ran off. _Return my child! I will protect you from the demon! Without my intervention, your soul will be lost! _ Agnetha, despite her young years, knew the score. Brother Gregorius was the danger; Brother Timothy would never, ever harm her. Brother Gregorius was weak, Brother Timothy was not. The other women sat cowed and catatonic while Brother Gregorius wet himself as he babbled what prayers he knew. More and bluer lightning erupted from the monk, illuminating the area in fits and starts. Agnetha felt more at ease once she was away from the carnage.

Agnetha stumbled across her brother hiding a short ways off from the scene. They hugged each other in greeting. He showed Agnetha his drawings. "Do not tell anyone I made these. One day I will be able to show the truth of what occurred here, but not now."

"Okay, Michel. I don't think Brother Gregorius is well, either. He is calling Brother Timothy a demon."

"He is not a demon! He is a Saint and the protector of the Monastery!"

"I know that, Michel. You do not have to convince me. "

Huddled together for what warmth they could glean, the two watched in fascination, childish wonder inuring them to the thought of danger.

Raegnir froze in midstep. Tendrils of icy fear began to seep into his psyche, damping his initial enthusiasm. _What in hell did he just say?_ _ I could only understand a little of that! _Ever since Rome had lost hegemony over her European empire, a polyglot of languages had corrupted the pure speech strains. He had been alive for nearer to 1500 years than 1000; when you are around for that period of time, learning can occur by attrition, that is, you will have to learn something. Raegnir could read, no mean feat for this time, but he also was aware of this language shift. The monks reply was in some sort of Celtic dialect. _I have never heard that before!_ _Or have I?_ There was no longer any such speech in these parts, Germanic tongues were creeping over here to muddy things further. The speech was somewhat recognizable, but the accent was wrong. _Morvran? Badb?_ Those gods were old….older than even possibly his Nordic Pantheon. He had traveled some of these lands before the Roman Empire subjugated it; even spoken with some soothsayers. He had learned what they had called Celtic. It only generally resembled what the monk had spoken, but with a more normal cadence. _What if what they spoke was the corrupted form? _Then this monk's speech would not be corrupted. He knew it! That had to be the answer! But how far back would one have to go to hear Celtic like he was now hearing? It had almost a sing-song quality about it…..the Olden-Tongue? That was just some fable he had heard! _That storyteller cringed when he spoke of it as if it was a speech to be feared; as if they who spoke the Olden Tongue meant only harm…_ That would make this monk so old…..Raegnir shook his head. The monk's posture also nagged at him. Ulgalth was right…this was no Christ priest or even a Hel warrior. They stood like one who commanded, not one who followed commands….like a …_King? There was a Celtic King who visited such slaughter upon his enemies that even the Gods feared his temper! One with the power of command! _Now was not the time for thought, but for battle. _But Wait!_ _The Romans eradicated them when they invaded! Even then the language was corrupted! But that was over 1000 years ago! The soothsayer spoke of a time so long before…when the king's fair bride was slaughtered and the king reaved through his enemies, greaved of arm. Eldritch speech and battle song ruled the land…_Olden-Tongue and a posture of a king…but from a time only spoken of legend and with fear and loathing….THAT IS NOT POSSIBLE! The monk was _glowering_…at him, a chilling smile warping his features. He was also singing again, but now Raegnir knew what to listen for in regards to that speech. That was no tongue humans had ever learned…NOT IN HIS TIME ANYWAYS! That was Eldritch speech at its most fluent, more like a song than simple voice! Blue lightning crackled across the monks' sword, his whole body. Even his eyes glowed with the flame. _Quickening fire,_ a voice screamed in his mind, but you see that when you take a head, NOT beforehand! Raegnir was witness to something not even an immortal wished to see. He had been warned to flee from such….a being who reveled in destruction and carnage, and old beyond even immortal comprehension. "Who are you!" Raegnir had to know, even if he knew his worst fear might now be reality.

The noise of the lightning and the speech pattern made understanding difficult, but Raegnir confirmed his ultimate fear. "I am he who is bereft of my due, thanks to the defilers and the Daoine who did not care. You and yours will pay dearly for your trespass!" Then the monk was upon him.

It dawned on Raegnir that the monk had not even considered his cohort a challenge, thus had not battled to his full capability. This much was unfortunately true. This was no Hel Warrior as Ulgalth had said, or maybe they were. This was a Hel Immortal! He remembered a conversation he had had with Olaf. He never really knew how old Olaf was, but one night in a mead hall they sat and talked. You and I, we have met all sorts of immortals, some friend, others foe, Olaf said, As you know, I am not afraid of anything I have seen on this earth, all save one thing. Olaf's visage paled all of a sudden. He took a long draught of his mead. There are immortals you will never, ever want to meet, Raegnir. They only wish to be left alone. They will go to great lengths to be left in peace, but if angered, they will fight like the scions of Hel. If you ever run across one, even Valhalla may forgive you for being a coward. How would I know one if I saw them? Raegnir was interested, but concerned. Olaf was not a coward, but if something had scared him…..They may speak an archaic tongue, unpolluted in its sound. Refer to gods long gone from this world. They may carry a weapon or use armor not of the sort you have seen. Others say they can hide themselves from detection. Yet others say they have taken so many heads and gained so much power that you can see the quickening fire on them. They are best avoided, at all costs. Raegnir nodded in affirmation. Have you ever met one? He asked conversationally. You see me here alive still, yes? Olaf glowered at him. We will speak no more of it; there is still much mead to drink…Olaf refilled his flagon.

_Daoine Na Sidhe?_ _You have angered a Hel immortal!_ The voice in his head screamed. _You have found one that should not even exist! _There was no time to reply, though. Raegnir was fighting for his life. As much as Raegnir wanted to attack, he found himself defending instead. Blow after blow rained down on him, and when it was not the sword, it was the monk's feet and hands he had to watch. His buckler was smashed and dented to ruin and his axes' blade edge was chipped in several places. He also noticed it was _scorched a_s well. The monks mailed left hand carried a painful punch. It was no matter that the monk wore only sandals. The monk kicked as powerfully as a mule. He knew from the beginning he was way outclassed. He was surprised he had lasted this long. His chain mail was slashed open in several places. What few blows he was able to land affected this monk not at all. What ever that cursed sword was made of, he doubted it was steel. As heavy as it must be, the monk wielded it as a child would wield a toy sword. It was so massive it whistled as it cut the air. It was darker than the darkest iron ore he had seen. The monk's robes did nothing to slow them down, either. He was faster than the fleetest warrior Raegnir had ever seen. A sideways slash from the monk missed him by mere inches and demolished half of a small, dead tree in a shower of splinters. With a recovery speed beyond any plausible logic considering the massive weapon, the monk brought the sword back across and down in a downward slash he blocked with his axe. The impact made his whole arm go numb. Now there was a gouge in the blade edge, not a chip. The finest steel that could be found and that sword had ruined it with one blow. Mustering his last reserves of energy, he charged at the monk with a berserk war cry, axe raised to deal carnage. To this point, his hardest blows had been blocked or parried. He had tried a shield bash before, but the monk was solidly built; their greave and body weight neutralized his own with ease. His second attempt at this maneuver was his last mistake. The monk skipped away as his sword came around in a whistling arc of death. Raegnir died in a spray of blood as his head was severed. Even before his body hit the ground, quickening power began to leech from his neck.

Aged, but hardly seasoned, Brother Timothy thought. This quickening would be of no consequence to him. Unlike those much less seasoned, those of his sort were not incapacitated by any but the most major quickenings. He absorbed the power into his right arm; some of it was used to relieve what fatigue he felt. He sheathed his sword and walked over to where Brother Gregorius and the women were. "Where is Agnetha?" he asked. Brother Gregorius screamed a prayer at him and held up a crucifix. Brother Timothy batted him aside.

"She ran off when that Brother attempted to grab her. He swears you are a demon from hell come to claim his soul. He wanted to protect her, but she ran away."

Brother Timothy noticed that the speaker of the words would not look at him directly. No matter, he thought. He was used to it. He cut their bonds with a cast off sword. "You will help Brother Gregorius back to the Monastery. They will tend to him."

"What of the others, though?"

"I will find them and bring them back." The chill in his voice was discomfiting enough so that the women arose and mutely started in on their task.

In his insane paradigm, Brother Gregorius had saved them from the demon. The power of his god was all mighty. He giggled at the fact that he was such a powerful man of god that he had warded away a demon. Oh, what sermons he would give!...alas, this was all in his mind; his exterior self had been destroyed in the conflagration he had witnessed. Even as he reveled in his insanity, one of the women, Bertae, was filled with anger. That monk was NOT a man of god! To her dying day, she kept her children away from Brother Timothy….far away.

Michel was awestruck. The monk had to be a saint. 13 of the heretic butchers he had slaughtered in only a moments time! He watched the monk quickly mounted a horse…_ with skill of course._ Once again, Michel was not even fazed by this. Oh, such tapestries and drawings this would make! After telling Agnetha to find her way back to the village, he managed to corral a mount for himself. He now became apprised of the danger he had willingly braved thus far. He was awe struck enough by what he had witnessed, but he had seen enough; he left the horse and then headed back to the monastery, crude drawings protected as well as possible from the elements.

It did not take long for Brother Timothy to find the rest of the Viking cohort. He ran into them in the process of herding the first group of captives. Brother Timothy smiled as he drew his sword once again; he had killed four of the remaining raiders even before they realized something was wrong. The captives screamed out at the fresh sounds of battle and attempted to get away from it; they moved like a herd of cattle. That made it so Brother Timothy did not have to run any down to get at his enemies. Dawn had only barely paled the sky as once more battle was waged. Brother Timothy had learned to fight from horseback as well; one by one, the raiders died. Olaf died with a look of horror on his face…..he knew what the monk was…he knew….

**Monastery of St. Timothy – Present Day**

…he jerked awake in a cold pall of sweat which even now was chilling him in the drafty room he inhabited. He could barely see the first hints of dawn in the sky. Outside of his window he could see a light dusting of snow on the ground. Well, another day of worship and work, he thought. He arose and stretched. He was not able to find his bowl of wash water or his robe…the room was not that chill either…central heating or some such...then with a shock, the last vestiges of his dream disappeared. Of course he would no longer have any wash water. There were communal showers. That assuredly beat a cold brook. Opening the door to a small closet revealed several robes in varying shades of brown. Brother Timothy chuckled. It has been a while since I dreamed like that…nearly thought I was still there. He then sighed deeply. So much has changed…but has anything really changed? He reached for a candle…not any more; there was a light switch. Brilliance flooded his rather Spartan chamber. A straw pallet (a real bed actually), stone flooring (with a throw rug), no decorations on the walls save for a cross. He opened the door to the hallway and then stretched. The tips of his fingers brushed a bar over his door. He leapt up and grabbed the bar with both hands. He had no problem doing fifty pull-ups. _That is too easy_, he thought. He then proceeded to do one armed pull-ups, twenty for his right arm and twenty for his left. He dropped to the ground, breathing a bit harder from the exertion. _I remember helping to build this door, _he thought as he walked down the hall to the (shower). He imperceptibly shook his head as if to clear the last cobwebs of the dream from his mind. He would be alone in the shower; this he knew. The morning meal these days was not served until seven or so and even without a (timepiece!), he knew that was near 2 hours away. There were no real stand-out features in Brother Timothy's visage, so there would be no point of describing them in detail. Brown hair, though no longer tonsured, cut severely short, but completely generic. Brown eyes also of the same type, unless you stared into them too long. No one ever succeeded at that, since he usually went around with hood in place. His voice was not as generic though. Its tone never evoked laughter and always seemed to possess some chill. You would be correct in assumption if you stated that he was paid barely a mind by the others present; oftentimes more so than not, he was avoided. He liked that. Fewer questions meant less answers. He showered and dried off, then returned to his quarters. After he donned a clean undergarment, he deposited the used one in the (laundry bin!), then went to his closet for a robe. There were several other things that were not mundane about this monk but only really noticeable if he was in a state of partial undress. Though of only slightly over average height, there were no areas of fat or flab that could be seen. His physique would have fit well into nearly any athletic club. There was an inordinate strength implied in the legs, chest and arms of this monk. No scar or blemishes marked his skin except a blackened, burnt spot below his left shoulder and another to the rear of his right hip; layers of hard muscle were where most would not have such. Though both arms had some color, the left was lighter in color than the right. Forearms of both bulged with corded muscle, the right more so than the left. And lastly, the right hand, though limber in every way, was a mass of callus tissue.

Actually there were nearly 20 of the robes on (hangers!), in varying states of wear. He gazed with contempt on a few of the newer garments. Mass produced recycled wool they were, dyed with artificial dyes to a ersatz, pallid brown that lacked any sort of real color. Another had what seemed to be rust colored highlights all through the garment. It was heavy of weight with good reason: The rust color was from the iron filaments woven amongst the stout wool fibers, a necessary modification. That robe had stopped more than a few lead balls. That would not be needed though. Instead he chose an old, battered robe he had. It was comfortable to the feel and touch. It also had a voluminous hood of which he immediately made use. Once dressed, he closed his door and walked back down the hall. Through another hallway past the showers was the main room of the monastery. The altar was splendid in appearance, all gleaming brass and polished wood. The pews were no longer rough-hewn, but padded and (comfortable!) The peace and quiet of this time was priceless to the monk. He learned to relish it as best he could. From the front of the main room, he could see the somewhat ornate stairs that led to the Monsignor's office and living quarters. Behind that staircase was another door. It was to that door to which Brother Timothy headed. He reached down to open it but the door did not give. He laughed for a second, and then pulled out a keychain that never left his side. He had installed the lock some years back when he thought someone had been snooping. He never found out who was doing so, but someone had been. It was a simple matter to put a lock on this entrance. Though old, the door opened with nary a squeak, due to liberal oiling. He shut the door and immediately turned to the right. A hallway stretched before him with various doors discernible at regular intervals. He stopped at the door at the end of the slightly sloping hall. This door was different looking then the other doors in that it looked far more massive. This one also was locked. The key lock had long been removed and had been replaced with a combination tumbler. Only 2 people knew the combination, and Brother Timothy was one of them. It also opened silently. This was once an old storage area; as far as Brother Timothy knew, no one save a very few knew it existed. At one time it was much more; this area once was part of the main room of the monastery, but upon the massive construction that occurred in the 1600's, this place had simply been forgotten. In here now was Brother Timothy's private sanctum. It had started as a simple hiding place for things, but that had been centuries ago. Over time, as clandestinely as possible, Brother Timothy had expanded and upgraded the area so that now it resembled a crowded study. A comfortable chair, an old but serviceable desk, and many bookshelves were present. Unlike his sleeping quarters, myriad decorations abounded on the walls, from a chipped steel axe to a tattered banner. Two fluorescent lamps served for light (He had been slow to realize it, but they sure beat candles!) A small fireplace was present along one wall, though it looked unused; past that it would suffice to say that most of the rest would have comprised a historians dream. First and foremost were the tomes on the shelves. Many of them were illuminated; most pertaining to some religious aspect. Some, as crudely bound as they were, were much older. 2 sections of shelving held nothing but written journals of the monk, who stared at them only for a moment. Seating himself in the chair, Brother Timothy unlocked the lower drawer on the desks right side. Here in lay some items no mortal alive even knew existed. He felt it was safer that way. Several tomes, all with locking clasps, some with even deadlier protections, were extracted first. A miniature crossbow, its breadth measured only 10 inches, and a set of quarrels for it. The quarrels were poisoned; the weapons purpose was not for any noble purpose. Rather, it was meant to kill silently from a distance, and kill quickly. Brother Timothy transferred it to another drawer in a smaller desk. A half-circlet of sterling silver, gleaming brightly, undecorated except for a runic-styled symbol in its center. .Last but not least, a sheet of old , old parchment with several paragraphs of Latin, signed by a pope…_guess you were not so Innocent after all…even thrice removed…_ he chuckled at the play on words, then unwrapped the item ensconced in a piece of velvet. Even crusted with dried, flaking blood you could tell that this cross was no normal cross. 10 inches high, 7 inches wide, both pieces an inch wide and a half inch thick, of near pure gold. A massive Ruby was at the juncture of the 2 parts of the cross and large Emeralds at its 4 endpoints. Diamonds encrusted its entire length. This was a Pope's cross, a sign of Papal authority. His expression grew hard for a moment, then relaxed as he replaced the items and relocked the drawer. He still periodically checked that those items were in their proper place. The contents of two of the Tomes would be very dangerous in the wrong hands, but he dared not destroy them. _What lengths we go to so that we can have some semblance of peace._ Until he had learned to read, he held all written matter in contempt. Once he had mastered the art of reading though, he held all books in equally high respect, whether or not he agreed with their contents. Many items on the walls would have been valuable additions to many museums. He smiled at the thought of the Monastery being a benefactor…he smiled grimly; best refer to it by its new name. .or one it held since 1051 or so…The Monastery of Saint Timothy. Even after all this time, he still cringed mentally when he looked at a vellum painting he had on one of the walls. Its title was "The Massacre of the Heretics" done by Brother Michel…._that black-mailing bastard_ he thought…_ it was my entire fault though. I should have known what was going to happen…_…._thankfully only this edifice was sanctified though…_ Brother Michel eventually rose to head the Monastery of St. Timothy. He was a pious and (relatively) learned man. It was bad enough that this original painting showed up at his quarters shortly after what had happened; what was worse was that a massive sized version of it adorned the back wall of the main chapel, complete with some visual embellishments, courtesy of Monsignor Michel. Then, as a courtesy of local tourist traps that abounded much later, mass numbers of reproductions. Oh joy. Though he had tried his hardest; even explained fully to Michel what he was, that one would hear none of it. The Monastery was renamed at behest of the reigning pope after the Edward king demanded it, and of all the tapestries and paintings Brother Michel did, that was the most galling. He did have a massive amount of talent, though. The end result of his encouraging that sort of talent was some of the most beautiful artwork outside of Italy. The other, more lasting result of Michel's exuberance was that Brother Timothy usually went around with his hood up; he still thought mortals to be fools in general, but all it would take would be one overly inquisitive fool. The monks here were a good example. Long past were the days when their initiates were the massively ignorant. Most all of the Brothers here had 1 or more college degrees; some even in scientific fields. Awe them as he did Agnetha? Bullshit. So the more anonymous he could become the better. There was another matter to be resolved as well, but it would have to wait. The bell announcing morning mass pealed, time for another day of prayer and work.

**Culloden 1746**

…..he had died; he knew that he did. As if it was not the first time in 210 years. Slowly, by degrees, the fatal wounds healed. Shortly, he was able to totter erect with the assistance of a handy tree. Then he made the mistake of looking around. He knew this was going to happen; Scotland stood no chance against England in open battle; they were at their best only when the Woad raiders were supreme. He wept as he saw many of his friends lying bloody and dead, never to rise again. The pursuit after the rout was ruthless, there had to be many dead. Unmindful of his tattered, bloodstained clothing, Duncan MacLeod burned for something else: Vengeance and slaughter, retribution for those killed today. He knew where one of the instigators lived. He smiled…..


	2. Chapter 1

Paris, Present Day

…and jolted awake and quickly sat up. Duncan thought for a moment…_I never smiled at seeing that carnage….I know I didn't_….he rubbed his hair and got up from bed. He sun was well up in the sky. I rarely sleep this late, he thought. It is not as I have too much to do today anyways. Before heading to the shower, there was one thing he never forgot to keep close at hand: A razor sharp Katana. He was thankful to have lived this long in no small part to his weapon. It was like an extension of his arm when he wielded it; a finer sword could not be found anywhere. After getting dressed, he brewed some coffee while he heated up a croissant in the microwave. As he ate the croissant, he thought about how he still enjoyed some simple pleasures in life…even after more that 450 years on this earth. He then felt that 'feeling'…another immortal was fast approaching his domicile. He stepped away from the remains of his repast and picked up his sword. Here would not be a good place to battle; it was not as easy to hide in today's society. "I am Duncan MacLeod of Clan MacLeod" "As if I don't already know that, Duncan. Let me in." He opened the door to see one of his immortal friends, Amanda. After a hug and kiss in greeting, he stared hard at Amanda. "What do you want now, Amanda?" Duncan went back to eating his croissant. She gave him an exasperated look," Why do you always think I want something? You ever consider I might be here just to for a friendly visit?" Duncan choked on his croissant while he laughed. "You? Friendly Visit? Why is it every time you come for a friendly visit, I have to protect my head or get involved in some such equivalent?" "That's not fair, Duncan!" She pouted for a second, and then brightened. "I do need a favor though." Duncan sighed, "I knew it. What is it now?" Amanda clucked her tongue, "It is actually two things. You know the rules that govern our combat? The holy ground and all? I am trying to find out where those rules originated, but I hit a blank wall around 1200 or so." "Those rules simply exist, Amanda, why not leave it at that?" "I don't know. I just don't like it if I can't find conclusions is all. They have to be codified someplace. Do you think you can talk to Dawson and find out if he has any information in his archives?" "And what is the other favor?" "A mortal friend of mine is doing some research on the Welsh and the Celts…she is trying to prove the existence at one time of a King over them all. I know you have some historical references regarding them. If you could assist in anyway, I would appreciate it." "Amanda….are you sure you know what you are doing?" "I think so, Duncan…after all, I am a lot older than you are!" She stuck out her tongue at him. "The question is, are you any the wiser? I suppose I better get in some sword work today...I can imagine your 'research' will be bound to cause some trouble." He shook his head, but a smile was on his face. "I will check with Dawson on that. Where is your friend?" "Oh, she lives in Wales of all places; why she refuses to leave there I do not know. I will be headed up there in a week or so. Thanks in advance for your help, Duncan!" Almost as fast as a blink of an eye, Amanda kissed Duncan on the cheek and zoomed out the door, lithe body making scarcely a breeze. Duncan shrugged off a moment of unease; what about the rules of combat, he thought. They were as simple as they could be. No battles on holy ground. No battles in sight of mortals. And no interference once a battle was joined. Leave it to Amanda to be curious about such things, though. But why did he all of a sudden feel uneasy though? He shrugged as he readied himself for some sword and combat practice.

The whistling of the blade as he performed his kata's and exerted himself cleansed his mind of all doubts. He was one with the sword as it cut through the air; nothing intruded on his favorite sort of meditation. Duncan, like Amanda and many others, was an immortal. Unlike mortals who grew old and died, he and his kind did not. He had no idea why or how he was given this gift (or curse)…but it was his….for as long as he could keep it. Immortals could die as well…if their head was separated from their body. Thus a means to defend one's head if needed was necessary. Some were younger, some older, and they ran the gamut from the benevolent to the malevolent. Duncan was and had been friends with some; others were bitter enemies he met as circumstance dictated. How many heads had he taken? If you counted the heads that were taken by those whose heads he had taken…over 1000 or so. It was not in his mindset to even question the why of this matter; as he so aptly put it many a time…"_it's what we do_". There were also some old immortals…Methos came to mind. He was thousands of years old; He had survived for so long by blending into the shadows anyway he could, at least in the present day. His latest means had only recently been exposed: Masquerading as a special sort of mortal called a Watcher. The majority of mortals did not know immortals existed. It was up to the immortal beings to hide this as best as they could. So they would seem to 'die', but actually move to a different part of the world, maybe take up a new identity... Time really had no meaning for them; they never aged or got sick. Many eventually realized the horizons open to them; learning is a geometric process in a way. The ones who turned their gift toward evil though, they were to be reviled. Duncan was human after all, by no means perfect, but he was for the betterment of mankind in general. Many heads he had taken were of these sorts of evil immortal; some as a matter of course, others as the culmination of a grudge. He did not usually seek combat though; there was much to learn He always was prepared though; sword and martial arts skills constantly being honed through practice and sparring with friends. As he cut off more heads and gained more power, his horizons seemed to expand; there seemed to be no end to what he thought he could accomplish. .Duncan had no intention of wasting the gift he had been given. After he was done, he showered again, dressed, and then went to pay a visit to a friend.

The Bistro was not too crowded at this time of the day; it would fill to capacity at night though. At a table in a farther corner of the establishment sat the owner. Dawson had a weathered, experienced look about him He was in his 50's, and he had seen a lot in his lifetime. He had lost both of his legs in Vietnam, but managed to get around using prosthetics. Ironically, it was at that same time, while recovering from his injuries, that his life took a whole new turn. He had watched his squad commander die under a hail of bullets, only to have the same individual rescue him and bring him to an aid station. He had saved Dawson's life. At first, Dawson thought he had been hallucinating, but it turned out that he had not. His commander was immortal. On his recovery from his injuries, Dawson was recruited into the ranks of a secret organization. Dawson was a Watcher. Most mortals lived their lives unaware that some of their peers were very different. Watchers were mortals who knew of the existence of immortals. They were assigned an immortal to watch. That was usually all they did: watch their chosen immortal, record their actions and keep track of various things concerning them, such as heads taken. Recently, a group of them went rogue; deciding for themselves that immortals were an evil to be cleansed; they killed many immortals, including one of Duncan's long time friends, Darius. Things came very close to an all out war between the two factions; only the combination of Duncan's morality and learned restraint and Dawson's diplomacy prevented this. It had long been a policy that Immortals should not know of the Watchers and what they did, but this had been sundered at the height of the rogue Watcher contingent's predation. In order to stop fatal harm from coming to two of his agents, Dawson revealed himself to his Immortal: Duncan MacLeod. Since that time, in violation of nearly all of their regulations, Dawson and MacLeod had become friends. Despite their friendship though, they were wary of each other; both did have shockingly different agendas. The laptop PC Dawson never let out of his sight contained a who's who of known immortals. Compiled information included original place of birth, present location and number of heads taken. Other information contained on it was a list of Watchers, their cells, and the name or names of their immortal charges. Needless to say, the laptop had all possible security options enabled on it. Seems that even an enterprise like this creates a sea of paperwork; So much simpler in the past, Dawson thought as he checked through some reports. He was so absorbed in what he was doing; he did not hear his friend until they spoke.

"With all that paperwork, are you running for election?" Dawson looked up to see MacLeod sitting across from him, a smile on his features. "Very funny, MacLeod. This is only a small portion of crap I have to wade through on a daily basis. How are things?" "The usual as far as I can tell; Amanda visited me this morning." Dawson chuckled. "I bet you were thrilled. What is she up to this time?" "She is doing some research on some things for herself and a friend. She thought you might be able to help in one case. She is researching the origin of the combat rules for us." Dawson's demeanor became more animated. "As far as I know, the rules simply exist. We have been able to find no formal codification of them. She wouldn't be the first one though to be interested, though she may be the first immortal to express interest. Research was done on that matter, but sometime around 1200, they hit a brick wall. Before then, there was no mention of any such rules. Maybe they became established tradition along with the Western Religions." "Amanda said she ran into the same block…about 1200." "What else was she after, MacLeod?" "A friend of hers is researching a myth about a king over all the Celts and such. I have some history of the Celtic people and such, but nothing at all about that." "Ah, the Celtic King of Kings; no one has proved that such a person ever existed. What information we have is myth, hearsay, and maybe a few folk music tunes of the bardic type." "That may be a start. I only hope that Amanda doesn't use her talents to further her quest though," Duncan's expression grew hard for a moment. "Her Watcher has a liking for Tylenol and Rolaids. I wonder why? It is amazing she has kept her head for this long. Her escapades would be enough to give an immortal gray hair, let alone one of us." Dawson said. They both laughed at that comment." She is okay, Dawson…just a bit headstrong and impulsive at times." "At times? How many times have her actions forced you to do battle, hmm?" "Amanda will probably always be Amanda, but she has saved my life a few times as well. She is my friend as are you, Dawson." "Don't say I didn't warn you, MacLeod. She is nothing but pure trouble. But maybe this is what she needs to occupy her time. It beats her usual occupation." Duncan shrugged, "We shall see about that. I will see you later, Dawson. Without further ado, Duncan strode out of the Bistro into the daylight. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The usual flow of heavy traffic was in progress wherever he looked. Amanda…he shook those thoughts out of his head. He decided to comb through his library of books to see if he had any of use to her quest anyways. Why did he feel so uneasy about her latest endeavor though? It wasn't as if he had not upset the status quo more than a few times himself.

"Hello?"

"Gwyneth? It's Amanda. How are you?"

""Amanda! Just great here. I was just thinking about you? Did you have any luck?" Gwyneth's voice had a slight burr to it; the modern day Welsh were far removed from those from antiquity, even the ones who dared challenge the power of the Crown in centuries past.

"I spoke to my friend and he said he would help in any way he could. I wonder though, why are you researching such a myth?"

Gwyneth laughed, a rich sound. "It is for a paper I am writing for the University here. Hopefully this will be the one that gets me tenure. She then sighed.

"Is something wrong Gwyneth? You sound tired."

"I went to the doctor yesterday. Those damned dreams will not stop, and it's interfering with my sleep. Also, I am worried about my cousin, Lyonal. I think he is in some sort of trouble. But I shall not burden you with all that. When are you going to visit me?"

"I don't know how soon, but as soon as I get the information I need from my friend, we will make plans."

"Great. I am looking forward to that. Bye for now!" Amanda hung up the phone then was lost in thought herself for a moment. _No_, a voice in her head decided then and there. Unknown to Gwyneth, Amanda knew Lyonal. Knowing him, she knew exactly the sort of trouble he probably was in. _We are peas of the same pod,_ she thought. That was except for the fact she was immortal as well. She first 'died' as a plague ravaged France circa 900 A.D. Rather ignominious, she thought, dead from the plague, then re-animating and crawling out from a pile of plague-felled corpses. She looked around at her apartment, _I have come a long way since then,_ she thought. Like most immortals, she had all sorts of money and assets stashed away but she still enjoyed what she did best. Amanda was an accomplished cat burglar. Over the centuries, she had honed her skills to the finest they could be. Lyonal also was a burglar, but he lacked her finesse. It also didn't help that his hair was as bright a red as a human could have. Now her thoughts went to Duncan. Had she mentioned to him she knew Lyonal, he would have given her a hard look and shook his head. Next there would be the lecture about how she should grow up and try to act her age. He did have a valid point though. At least two times her past had forced him into battles he rather would have avoided; Duncan was as faithful a friend as an immortal could have. Yes, even immortals needed company at times, since it was never a good idea to confide in mortals exactly what you were. She was about five and a half feet tall, attractive but not overly so, with a figure well suited to an acrobat. That only followed due to her profession as a thief. To any familiar with the Dungeon's & Dragon's lexicon, Amanda would be classified as a Rogue versus Duncan being classified as a warrior. Rogues were stealthy and lived by their wits, but could fight their way out of a tight spot if needed. The trick was to minimize the fighting part in anyway possible, often to the detriment of others who were around her. _I wonder what Lyonal has gotten himself into this time,_ she thought. Oh well, she would find out for sure when she got to Wales. She smiled at Duncan's gruffness about her requests. _He has upset more paradigms than I ever will…he should talk._ She neglected to remember that Duncan's judgment was far better than hers in many respects, despite his younger age. She also would learn a valuable lesson in why some questions should never, ever be asked, unless you could deal with the implications and the paradigm shift it would cause. And little did she know, but her mortal thief friend would set in motion a cataclysmic chain of events…


	3. Chapter 2

**Near Carmarthen, Wales**

At the very same moment of her ruminations, Lyonal leaned against a building, out of breath and his hair completely in disarray. He had run as far as he could; he dodged, ducked and hid. It was of no avail…he was trapped. Even as he heard the sounds of a car headed towards him, he quickly filtered through his options. He could offer to return what he had…borrowed, but it had gone beyond that. No one ripped off these people and lived to brag about it. A wisp of his hair canted over his brow, tickling his right eye. Exasperated, he brushed it out of the way. The curse of my existence, he thought. His hair was a flaming red, and it was not due to any dye. Usually when on his borrowing exploits, he wore a cover to hide this feature, but of course it had to get damaged at the wrong time. Slender of build, he had piercing blue eyes to go with his hair. No lock could hold against him, no place unvisitable,_ and no way to hide my red hair well_, he thought. Despite the laws against it, he did have a firearm, but it was a .25 two-shot derringer model; suitable to wound, maybe, but not for any direct confrontation. His ruminations ended as he heard the screech of brakes and his pursuers made themselves shown. He raised the .25, but something struck his hand painfully, making it go numb. He dropped the pistol, but before he could retrieve it, two thugs were upon him. He managed to land one punch on one of them, but they punched back. Doubled over and gasping for breath after a blow to his gut, they grabbed him by either arm and jerked him erect. He looked down at the ground and saw next to his pistol a shillelagh of fine wood. He knew who owned the cane. A slow measured beat of footsteps, then the cane's owner appeared. Shamus Llewellyn was not grossly fat, but portly he was. Dressed in a tweed suit, he looked a very dapper sort. The first impression you would have had upon seeing this gentleman with the neat moustache and ruddy cheeks would be a doting father or grandfather. His eyes were as cold and heartless as the winter though; the kind, grandfatherly features were only a façade to cover his murderous capability. "Good evening, Lyonal. I am so very glad to see you. Could one of you boys please retrieve my cane?" The one holding Lyonal's right arm picked up the cane and tossed it to Shamus. "Thank you so much, my lad. Now there is another thing I need to retrieve. Could you lads be so kind?" "Shamus, I can explain—unfff*!" Lyonal was doubled over with another vicious punch as he was roughly searched. "You don't speak unless he asks ye, thief! And ye will call 'im Mr. Llewellyn!" The thug on the left found what he sought and tossed it to Shamus as well. He opened the pouch and inspected its contents. Several gold coins and gemstones were there. "Excellent!" Shamus smiled, "It is such a change to have co-operative help!" Then the smile fell off of his features like rain. "Lyonal, Lyonal, what am I to do with you? You know what happens to those who …as you aptly put it…borrow from me?" "Mr. Llewellyn, I can explain! I was told to retrieve those things for Lewiston!" "Ah, Mr. Lewiston does seem to be a plague that will not go away. I shall have to deal with him as well in time. You, however, are sorely in need of a new profession, Lyonal…one more suitable to your genotype." All three of the criminals laughed, even if Shamus was probably the only one to understand the meaning of the word." Maybe you are right Mr. –""That hair of yours is a dead giveaway, you know; one picture of it from our cameras, one thief easily found. I think that we need to provide you some incentive for changing careers." The two thugs sniggered at that comment. "Tell me, boys, "Shamus said conversationally, "What makes a thief able to be a thief?" "Well, Mr. Llewellyn, they need hands to steal things, they do!" "And legs so as they can run off with what they stole!" the second thief added. "That is about what I think, boys. So if I ruined his hands and shattered his kneecaps, do you think that would force him to choose another career?" Lyonal gasped. That would ruin him for sure. "Mr Llewellyn, please! You have your merchandise back! I promise you I will never borrow from you again!" Shamus mused, "If I were to destroy both his hands and knees, then he would be on the welfare rolls. Pity that I would still be indirectly paying him. One of each, then. And to show you how sporting I am, Lyonal, I will let you choose. But do so quickly, for I am a bit pressed for time!" The two thugs laughed, but Shamus headed towards Lyonal with purposeful intent. "You can't expect me to choose what part of me will be crippled! For the love of god—"

"Hoy there!"

The four men present stopped and turned in the direction of the voice. The two thugs guffawed loudly. Even Lyonal laughed. _Is this guy for real?_ He mused. They were staring at a complete anachronism, comical in this age. The man stood maybe five feet eight with immaculately sculpted hair, as red as Lyonal's. Eyes of a deep green peered from a rather spare face. It was the clothing that was a shock, though: This individual was dressed as if he had recently returned from Parliament…in the days of George the Third. White ruffled shirt with a pale green coat and breeches, wide-buckled shoes fashionable for that time. He was holding a rather ornate cane in the crook of his left arm. With a rather cheerful smile on his countenance, he walked up to the men and. _bowed!_

"Good evening, gentleman. I am led to believe that you are the one in charge here?" His English was cultured and impeccable, as would have been suited to one clothed as such. He had Shamus' attention. "I believe that I am correct in my assumption. Very well."

Shamus was just enough amused to hear this idiot out. If anything, his manners were that of a gentleman, even if he was dressed like a popinjay. The man continued speaking, now that he knew he had the tweed-suited ones attention. "It seems that we both were seeking the same individual." He gestured at Lyonal. "I admit he is rather recalcitrant, wouldn't you say? But, we have a problem regarding his disposition, sir. It seems to me that you would wish to do this one harm, but we would have need for him unharmed. If you were to smash his hands and knees, he would be of no use to us. Perhaps there could be some sort of inducement we could offer so that we have him uninjured? Perhaps maybe some other coins or stones like those you now possess? We would most assuredly guarantee that he will trifle you no more with his….talents." The popinjay scratched his head, and then stared at his right hand. Then he turned a rather roguish smile towards Shamus.

"That is a tempting offer you make there, popinjay. Can't you see though, we have him first. And possession is nine tenths of the law. You can have him after I have taught him a lesson. And maybe you will even want to get some clothing that doesn't make you look a fool." He laughed and continued towards Lyonal.

"Sir, I really must insist in this matter—"

One of the thugs backhanded the unexpected guest on his ass, his cane clattering to the ground. "He said ye were done discussing th' matter, now piss off, ye faggot!" Both thugs sniggered at the popinjay on the ground. Then the fop got up quickly. Way too quickly, Lyonal thought, all things considered. Was this some sort of trick? His options were running out; fight as he may, he saw the end result, and it did not look good. He looked again at the fop, who had retrieved his cane and brushed himself off. "Your men, sir, have soiled a perfectly good outfit for no reason." The fop still had the cheerful countenance as before. Then it disappeared from his visage like rain along with his impeccable English. "Ye should not have done that, sirrahs." Almost inhumanly fast, the fop's demeanor had changed from cheerful to…something else. He twisted off the top of his cane and dashed some liquid into one thug's eyes. They fell to the ground screaming. Then he unsheathed the cane in the middle and rammed a needlelike sword through the others' throat. He was dead before he hit the ground. A quick slash from the device silenced the other thug. Stepping in front of Lyonal, he faced Shamus, only a few feet between them.

"They were rather rude, they were you know. Maybe you should hire help with better manners, sir."

Shamus was no longer amused. That thieving Lyonal had corralled some help after all. The two thugs were of no loss, but not only had this fop dispatched them with ease, he held his cane-sword at an en garde stance, as if he knew how to use the weapon. "Now, sir, it appears that you do not possess him; that would make him a sort of free agent?" The fop cocked an eyebrow at the crime boss.

"Do you realize who I am and what happens to people that interfere in my business?" Shamus roared.

"You appear to be a fat bastard with a shillelagh, I suppose, unless I am missing something?" Lyonal guffawed at that comment. Watching Shamus' face grow red with rage was fitting entertainment, considering what the outcome may have been.

"I will teach you some manners, you galling fop!" Shamus reached into his sports coat and withdrew a pistol.

"Oh, bother!" the fop exclaimed as he saw the pistol. He nodded to a location behind Shamus.

"See how you like—arghhh!" Shamus suddenly had a surprised look on his face as his pistol wielding hand was frozen in mid arc. His mouth opened, but no sound but a croak emerged. Perhaps it was because of the 9 inches of steel that protruded from his stomach. Slowly at first, then in faster gouts, blood poured from his mouth as he collapsed face down on the pavement. Lyonal paid the body no mind though. His attention was focused on the person standing behind it instead. This one looked as savage as the fop looked refined._ Well over 2 meters rather than not,_ he thought. A shaggy tangle of fiery red hair topped a massive, muscular physique. In their hands a large sword dripping Shamus' blood. The giant was clad only in what appeared to be a loincloth of sorts. Lyonal was a thief by trade; he was not a murderer. Now would be a good time to leave, he thought. If he was noticeable, what about that giant? He sidled quietly as he could around the fop and prepared to make his exit, but it was of no avail. As quick as a snake, the fop's left hand closed on Lyonal's right arm with a crushing grip that made him wince. _Pretty strong for your size, I think._ Lyonal stopped and tried to twist out of the grip, to no avail.

"Where are ye going, my boy? You aren't gonna thank your benefactors?" The fop released a bit of pressure on Lyonal's arm, but did not entirely release it. "I do thank you…" "My name is of no consequence. I was worried that if you left in a hurry though, my friend might become offended!" He gestured at the giant. "You have seen what happens when that occurs, right?" The fop laughed, but it did not sound cheerful. Lyonal remembered a cliché: out of the frying pan….these men were dangerous men; dangerous to the extreme. Maybe the fop was nowhere near the size of the giant, but he had killed two people in a blink without the slightest qualm. "I would not want to offend, but you killed them. It would not be a good idea to stay here." The giant grumbled something, but was brought up short with a sharp comment from the fop. "You there…hush! Not another word! I said I would handle this." He turned to Lyonal. "I can understand your concern, but pay these no mind. They will be disposed of. Second, why so tense? We mean you no harm, no harm at all. If we did so, why not just have let the fat bastard harm you, Hmm?" He pointed at Shamus' corpse. "Why were you seeking me, then?" Lyonal asked. "I don't even know who you are; why would you intercede?" Giving the giant another warning look, the fop explained. "We have a small matter that needs a person of your…abilities to resolve is all. If you can resolve this little matter for us, we will call it even. Fair enough?" Once again, the fop had the charming twinkle in his eye, but Lyonal was not put at ease. "What if I can't or won't resolve this matter?" The fop looked at him askance, "As I said, my friend there is easily offended, you know….he has this idea of debt for debt; it is strange, I know, but I can not seem to convince him otherwise." "In case you haven't noticed, my hair is not so easily concealed" Lyonal removed his cap so that his red hair fully showed. "The same shade as yours, it seems." Lyonal grinned. "That will be of hopefully no consequence since if you are as good as we have heard; you should not even be seen. I have been told you are." "By Whom?" "Oh, various sources, no one in particular. Let me explain to you what needs to be done, and as a gesture of good faith," He toed over Shamus' corpse and extracted the valuables, then tossed them to Lyonal." Those you can keep; you earned them, you know."

After, he parted company with Lyonal, and had gotten his promise of compliance and secrecy, the fop walked back to where the giant was. The giant immediately grumbled some unintelligible dialect at the fop. "When I tell you to hush, you simply do it! You do not question me!" There was more of the same from the giant. "If you had wanted, you could have learned other languages, but you insisted through your ox-brained stubbornness on not learning anything past what was needed! Sometimes you are nothing more than an irritant!" This brought a menacing growl from the giant. "Oh, please! Calm down! I thank you for extricating me from what could have been a messy situation tonight, though. Those things make a dreadful amount of noise. They seem to be the weapon of choice today." The fop sighed, and then yawned. The yawn revealed filed incisors, all of which now looked like canines. The giants' teeth were similar. Then he glanced at the corpses. The fop looked at the giant in disgust. "Oh, please! The fat one would be tough and stringy," He kicked at the two thugs' bodies. "And these would be polluted with near any conceivable toxin. Have patience, my friend. Soon there will be plenty of quality victuals for all of us." The giant lumbered forward closer to the fop, mumbled something else, and then looked in the direction of where Lyonal had departed. "Of course I know what I am doing! That fool will do what we ask. It is so much better to persuade people as diplomatically as possible; maybe you should learn that." The giant rumbled in laughter and kicked Shamus' corpse. "Okay, so it does not always work out that way!" the fop was looking around the alley. "Now I will need your assistance in disposing of this rubbish." The giant muttered something else and rubbed his crotch suggestively. "Now you know why I do the planning! If we were to even mention harming her, do you think that fool Lyonal would co-operate? Then we would be back at square one. Once again, when I tell you to be quiet, you WILL be quiet! What if that fool had been one of their scholars, hmm? Your speech would raise all sorts of annoying questions. I will speak for both of us from now on." The giant laughed again and pointed at the fop's clothing. "Well, how was I to really know? But considering you have only a loincloth.." The fop chuckled, and then shuddered. The clothing that was considered the norm today looked so….common. It would be necessary, however, to blend in as much as possible…at least for the moment. He had the giant drag the bodies into a pile. Their clothing was ruined, soaked as it was in blood, _not that it would fit us well anyways,_ the fop thought. It was no problem for the giant to weight the bodies and toss them into a nearby canal. "Now, my friend, we shall get ourselves some appropriate clothing. We have much to do in these next few days." The giant rumbled something rather menacing as his hand tightened on his sword. "We will deal with that in due time. I have determined this is our best chance to gain the upper hand…provided that fool does as he is told…." The fop pierced the giant with a gaze that made the giant look away in embarrassment. "And I told you already, it would not have been a good idea for us to attempt that task we sent the fool to do! What if he had caught us there, hmm? You think you could face him even with that sword? Despite your size and strength, he is NOT afraid of you; he nearly took your head some time ago! That accursed sword is proof against most anything wielded against it, his prowess and anger even more so, and don't you EVER forget that!" He struck the giant in the chest for emphasis. "Why not ask Gwynach and Colluill about it? Of course, they are rather dead, aren't they? They had the element of surprise, even, but it still did them no good. He had the gall to judge us, yet he was by far more malevolent than any of us." The fop sighed, "Now, lets go find us some clothing, then we will see who is lurking around, ok?" They walked off together, conversing in the speech the giant used. They both seemed cheerful…about something. If they were not given names at the moment, it was not from oversight. Their names were of no real consequence at this point. All too soon, way too many would learn of them, and many would die from a direct result of this education.

**Carmarthen, Wales**

A new day dawned in Wales, cloudy and with a drenching rain. Dawn had just begun to show its face, but that was of no concern to Gwyneth Hyvern. She sat on the edge of her bed, expression haggard on her face. Despite the chill in the flat, she was soaked in sweat. _The dreams again, the dreams, _she thought. On her end table sat a prescription container of peace from them, _they do not leave me rested, and they hit like a sledge hammer. _She sighed, and then arose. There would be no more sleep for her today. Despite her haggard look, there was work to be done. As she padded down the hall in her nightgown, she passed by another room. Its contents were in disarray, _as usual¸_ she smiled, but in the center of it all lay a male with hair as fiery as her own, snoring away. Good that you are back, Lyonal, she thought, I was getting worried about you, you know. Her cousin, despite his rather irreverent ways, was all she really had left in this world. Barely 30 she was, but she had suffered much grief and hardship. Her parents had died when she was little; so little she had a hard time remembering them on occasion. Lyonal just appeared one day. It turned out he was her cousin. It worked out pretty well, he had a place to stay and she had someone around that did not make her feel so lonely. She never had questioned how he made a living, but recently, some scary sorts of men showed up here seeking him. Hopefully, they would not show up today; she had work to do, regardless of how she felt. Her loneliness was of the self imposed sort; it had nothing to do with how she looked or her demeanor. To say that Gwyneth was beautiful would be the same as calling a Rembrandt artwork or Beethoven just a symphony. She was tall, almost 2 meters in height, and very desirably proportioned. Fiery red hair fell to almost her waist, radiant green eyes, and a complexion unsullied by any blemish. She was blushingly modest regarding her looks. She simply had few interests outside her academic world. Was it the dreams that compelled her to study the lore and language, or was it the opposite? She did not know. It was her consuming desire, though. It had led to a professorship at the university, which, even if the pay was not extravagant, was more than sufficient to support her where she was. After a shower and some coffee and croissants, she felt slightly better. There was one more thing to do, though. She was an academic scholar and regarded her work with a serious bent. The combination of her hair color and eye color would often get the attention of various sorts of anachronist idiots. It was hard enough to concentrate on her work without being accosted by these Dungeon & Dragon types, so she had found a simple solution: contact lenses. They were of a very good sort meant for long wear. Once they were in place, she now had blue eyes; it did nothing to hurt her appearance, but with the generic blue color, she could avoid a lot of situations regarding these anachronists. She had dreamed last night, she knew she had dreamed. She opened a journal on a shelf and quickly scribbled what details she could remember. At times the dreams were pleasant, almost idyllic. Last night, they had been the opposite. Blood and slaughter…death and destruction. A sword of dark metal that whistled as it slew its foes. There were fields of carnage…burning and death. And throughout it all, a feeling of anger and sadness and loss. It seemed that those felled by the sword were of fiery red hair…most..not all. And there was some singing, but it seemed not of a pleasant nature. She could not for the life of her remember the words, but they sounded ancient. It was odd though that only in the last few months had the dreams turned violent. She finished writing in the journal then sat down and turned on her computer. Her area of study was broad yet not so broad: She studied and researched Celtic history, its languages and its culture. Meticulous in her research, she left no stone unturned. Interspersed with runic writings, pictures of artifacts, and what not, a rich collection of Celtic music, fable, folklore, and myth. The object of her research could have some shocking consequences: She sought to prove that at one time in history, there had been a Celtic king over ALL the tribes, not just in England proper, but in Europe as well. This person would have been higher than a chieftain and all other authority. They would have even had a place from which they ruled. Her biggest obstacle was the lack of any real corroboration of her theory. The problem had to be attacked through legend and folklore; she saw no direct way to prove her supposition. England proper was hit the hardest when the Roman Empire fell. From 400 A.D. to approximately 1400 A.D., learning and literacy were not held in the highest regard. Survival was. From 400 to 1100 would have been the worst of it; if she proved her thesis to be true, it would have probably set this legendary king back long before even Christ was allegedly born. It represented a suitable challenge for her ability, though. She had become conversant in several Celtic dialects in the process, along with Gaelic and Welsh. She looked over some parchment fragment pictures she had just received some days ago. The e-mail that accompanied it was terse but to the point.

Gwyn,

These were verified as being genuine They are scans of what was unearthed in a site up near where you are, in Wales. I hope they are of help. I will see if I can find more as time dictates.

A.

Gwyneth smiled. Amanda was a good friend, if a bit odd in some ways. She was a member of an anachronist's guild, thus her fascination with swords and the like, but unlike the others, she did not pester her. They seemed to get along well despite their separate quirks, though. The parchment fragments were rather sparse and burnt around the edges, but there still was some decipherable text on one piece. _Looks ancient, _she thought, _this is not even remotely modern._ At a loss to directly translate from her own knowledge, she began calling up various delineations of numerous Celtic dialects. partially by conjecture, partially by knowledge, she arrived at a tentative interpretation:

..(he?) grieved so, (then?) with sword, he meted out the only justice the defilers (might?) understand…

She set the translation aside on her desk with a sigh. This was demanding work, requiring all her concentration. The fact that she worried about her cousin at times did not help things. She heard the shower running. _ Good, he is up, and at a relatively decent time. _ She smiled. _ Maybe what I need is a break from all this, some relaxation would do me good._ She finished her strong coffee and considered this option. There was a small dwelling in Paris that was also hers, bequeathed to her in the will of some relative; she could not find out who. It was by no means high class, but she got by rather frugally these days. It was not that she couldn't complicate her life easily with a companion, it was just she had no interest, despite her Aphrodite-like features. If she wished to spend a few days there, it would not be much a problem. Silent as a cat, Lyonal padded out to the kitchen and stepped up behind Gwyneth. "Boo!" cried as he hugged her from behind.

"You stop that this instant, Lyonal! Quit sneaking around like a burglar!" She wasn't totally cross though, as a smile creased her features. "Morning, Gwynnie. I have to go somewhere, but I will be back soon." He pecked her on the cheek as he swiftly breezed out the door. As usual, he was dressed in black. The color made his slim figure look gaunt though. _He needs a better wardrobe, _she thought, and maybe some direction. Lyonal seemed to have no steady job, but always seemed to have money on his person. Gwyneth did not know how he earned a living; at times she was not sure she wanted to know. She could not help but worry about him at times, though. He was all she had left in this world; he and her work. She put it out of her mind as she made a list of things to buy at the market.

She returned two hours later with her goods. It was only in the midst of putting them away she noticed the envelope and the note. Inside the envelope was five hundred pounds in currency. Once again, she worried about Lyonal. _This is well in excess of what he owes me for the bills, _she thought, _It may not be fully my business, but his manner of money procurement puts me ill at ease._ She read the hastily scrawled note that was with the envelope.

Gwynnie,

Hopefully this will defray some of the expenses I incurred in the past few weeks. I will be visiting someone in the UK area for the rest of the day regarding possible employment. I will be back tomorrow.

Lyonal

She really wanted to believe all was well, but the envelope of money made her think differently. She yawned. Maybe she would take a nap. After a moment's deliberation, she took one of the pills her doctor had prescribed for her. As much as she hated the aftereffects of them, they did allow her to sleep.

On the train headed towards his destination, Lyonal mulled over the past, present, and the future. The past of his 20-odd years had been a mix of foster homes and minor scuffles with the law. A few years back he had run into Amanda while they both were in the process of…borrowing from the same volunteer. He sort of liked her, but there was a part of her that seemed…aloof. She would be friendly towards him, but that was all. He really was not sure he wanted more than that. The present looked somewhat better; the broker he had visited always got his cut, but he had made near 1000 pounds from what he had taken from Shamus, _with more than a little help from those two oddly dressed redheads._ He had left 500 of it for Gwyneth, and kept the rest for himself. As to his future, he was not sure. A little pilfering could not be too much harm, he thought. Considering what the outcome could have been, he should have felt relieved. He was thankful that he was not too religious; if there was a god, what he was about to do would not look good on any afterlife tabulation. He laughed nervously to himself. Oh well, he thought, the sooner I get this task done, the sooner I can go back to my old life. Or so he thought. He got off at a place called Kings Langley. _Do not head directly there; get off before your destination. A little walk may give you time to think. _From there it was only several kilometers to where he needed to be. It was a simple matter to procure lodging at the city outskirts. _No need to go into the city proper! _The smaller redhead admonished_. Where you are heading is also on the periphery as well._ Once Lyonal was in the room alone, he laid out his borrowing wardrobe, including a black hood to hide his damning hair. There was still some daylight left, so he decided to take a nap.


	4. Chapter 3

_Another day, another call to prayer and services,_ Brother Timothy thought. He had gotten used to life here many ways. He felt that he could well deal with change, but it seemed that every time he focused on the Monastery, the changes made seemed drastic, and almost never, he felt, for the better. He locked up his retreat, the locked the door under the stairs, making sure no one saw him do so. It was better this way, he thought. There were near 80 brothers here now, plus 30 or so initiates. Long gone were the days of rampant theistic-based ignorance. For many of the Brothers, this was only a temporary stop for a few years, until they went on to other things. Even the current Monsignor was more a businessman than a Monk. His train of thought ceased as he entered the communal eating area. It was already very active with Monks breaking their fast. He stood in line until he was served a tray of food. He mentally sneered at the (cooks!) the Monastery had hired some time ago. I suppose things had to change, he mused, but we were able to feed ourselves from our own provender for what seemed forever. And of course, no more back breaking labor for even the initiates, let along the Brothers here. Professional landscapers were in charge of the exterior grounds. A cadre of gardeners tended what gardens remained. The interior of the monastery, save for the monks' sleeping areas, was maintained by a cleaning service! He had welcomed the hard labor that used to be the norm around here; there were some here that could have used the exercise. Flavored, smooth oatmeal, buttered toast, orange juice, and fat-free milk comprised this mornings' fare. Soon, all seats but one was filled. The eating hall grew silent as Monsignor Leopold arose to address the Monastery inhabitants. "And on this day we should be thankful for our provender, given to us by the grace of god" _And wise investments from the business entity that controls this establishment, _Brother Timothy mentally added. "We are missing someone, are we?" Monsignor Leopold looked at the empty seat. "Who do you think we are missing, Monsignor? Maybe they lost their way here from the lavatory?" Brother Edward was a rather boorish piece of gutter trash. It was amazing that he had a divinity degree, Brother Timothy thought. A wave of laughter rippled through those present; all were laughing except one. Brother Timothy was not laughing. "And when you are old and infirm, would you like jokes being made at your expense as well? As long as Brother Ignatius has been with this Monastery, he should be shown respect, not ridicule!" The icy tone of his voice in his reprimand made those near him wince, and made all somewhat ashamed for laughing at the crass comment. Just at that moment, with slow, measured footsteps, Brother Ignatius appeared in the hall. Slowly, he came to the food line, retrieved his plate and sat down next to Brother Timothy. Considering that he was near 100 years old, he was doing well. The signs of age were there, though. His hair was almost all gone, his hands shook ever so slightly and steadily when they were set to a task. He was bowed over due to his years as well. He never failed to smile though, and his eyes still held the spark of awareness. "I do apologize for being late to the morning repast, brothers. Please forgive me for my lack of agility and timeliness." His voice still was clear, with no sign of degeneration. Brother Leopold once again addressed those present, Brother Timothy's rebuke all but forgotten. "Let us now break our fast, for we have a busy day ahead of us!" _Busy doing what?_ _Whatever such make work that could be found?_ Of course, before even that could happen, there was the morning mass. He was hungry, though, and he fell to his repast as soon as the Monsignor gave his blessing. Another uneventful day was starting; Brother Timothy liked it that way, peaceful and idyllic as could possibly be.

After breakfast, the Brothers and initiates gathered in the main area. Soon the padded pews were filled. _Much better I suppose than what there used to be, _he thought, _but where is the hardship and piety in this?_ With the comfortable pews and central heating, it was as if they were the visitors to this place of worship rather than its keepers. He had by this time re-hooded himself for a very good reason. Along the back wall of the central area, behind the pulpit, that massive hanging was there. It was Monsignor Michel's crowning achievement in using his gift to the glory of God. _Had I known what he really planned he would have done…what?_ Killed the initiate? What would that have solved? The damage had been done that fateful day, and he was as much as to blame if not more. "The Massacre of The Heretics" as it was called, was not only a good tourist magnet; it was held in respect and awe by the Brothers and initiates alike. The hanging showed the villagers praying to god (cowering was more like he remembered it) as a figure in monastic garb presided over pieces of Viking heretic (I never bothered to look! I was too busy killing them, and the God I prayed to was no Christian one!), sword raised on high. The monk had a golden nimbus around his head. _A Saint anointed by God? And Michel drew my visage in utmost detail…holy poetic license?_ It was because of that hanging that Brother Timothy rarely showed his face even to the other Monks. If many of them he thought pompous, none of them were stupid. Michel's rendering would have left no question in the mind of any had they had his face to directly compare to the hanging or it would have raised a lot of questions from them. _Then I would be the latest tourist attraction!_ Hardly, he thought. There was one present who knew what he was, and as the Brother's gathered, he helped that one into his seat as best he could. He noticed only too acutely Brother Ignatius' frailty in the physical sense. He was near 100 years old, that much he knew. He also would not live forever; thus, Brother Timothy was in a quandary. Should he confide in someone else soon, or even at all? Brother Ignatius had been only an initiate in 1924, when he discovered Brother Timothy practicing with the holy sword. His horror at seeing the holy artifact treated as a base weapon was overshadowed by his awe as the instrument whistled through the air as if it was alive. He brazenly walked out in sight of him and asked, what are you doing with the holy artifact! Brother Timothy stopped his practice and looked at the initiate. Are you the protector of the Monastery as the legends say? Ignatius' face began to take on the sheen of awe that still made Brother Timothy ill at ease. He would have no more of that, no matter what he had to do. Do not look at me so! I am not what you think I am, but I am different than you and the others. Fortunately, it had worked; the 20th century was a blessing in its own way, despite the hell to come. Initiate Ignatius had become Brother Ignatius, then Monsignor Ignatius. His age led him to step down from the post some 20 years back. He had faithfully kept Timothy's secret since that day of discovery. He had talked to him for all this time; he had widened the scope of Brother Ignatius' knowledge many fold. The only real shock Ignatius had ever had from their conversations was when Brother Timothy had told him how old he was approximately. Only Ignatius knew about his sanctum under the Monsignor's quarters. He was also the only mortal who knew the name he used to have. Needless to say, he was always concerned about this brothers' welfare, even though he knew by now he could trust him implicitly. They all went quiet as Brother Leopold approached the lectern for his sermon. No longer did the brothers' voices unite in song during the mass though. At the end, they maybe sang some hymns but a CD player item sang the monastic paeans. As if our voices were not sufficient! But, he thought, no one but he and Ignatius were really fluent in Latin, as far as he knew. The church had excised Latin from most all of its rituals. It was not even 20 years ago during a funeral when he spoke the absolutions and blessings in Latin. It had made the other brothers … _uncomfortable!_ They complained to the Monsignor about what they saw as a _transgression!_ Brother Timothy glowered in silence for days afterwards from the request to use Latin no more at the services. At this rate, soon they would be no different from the churchgoers! But over the years and longer, the number of those had declined as well. Protestantism had made its heaviest mark in England and Scandinavia. As they rapidly modernized their rituals, leaving the arcane and mystifying behind, so was the monastery forced to do the same. He thought about writing out a sermon in Olden Tongue as a practical joke. _That would show those bastards!_ He was of enough maturity though so that never happened. It was such a shame in some respects though. He tuned in the Monsignor's sermon "We are born and we age, then we die. Only by accepting the gift of God into our hearts can we hope to get to heaven in the afterlife." _Is that really so, Monsignor? You believe in that so absolutely, should I as well? Or maybe I know otherwise! _ He had heard this sermon many, many times before. He remembered a time when things were so much simpler as his mind began to wander…..

**Prehistory: ca. 20,000 B.C.E.**

_He had had a name at that time, but he had forgotten it. It meant 'hair-of-the-soil" though. Others had laughingly stated it also was of the color of the refuse people excreted on the ground, but his fists had stopped that alliteration. His hair was a dark, dark brown though. Others of his tribe had red and blonde hair; none near the color of his. He knew in his own heart that he would never be accepted here, only tolerated. Even his mate had left his cave, since though he came to her most every night, no progeny had he sired. He was not even angry about it though. He was simply not like the others. She had left him alone, but he adapted. He learned to weave his own baskets, cure his own hides. Self-sufficient to a fault he was. He also was the best weapon-maker they had. Wood, flint, it was second nature to him. The light complexioned ones held his hair color against him. The elders held his lifestyle against him; even in the leanest of times, he could procure food, and not a few were forced to accept his charity. And lastly, their shaman hated his guts; unlike the others, he did not fear the shaman. He thought him an abject fool, living off the people's fear of the unknown. This would be the main cause of the sundering. He was by no means the biggest there physically, but he would tolerate no mistreatment from the others. A rock hit him painfully in the back one time. It was perceived by him to be a challenge; a violation of his existence. They were treated to a taste of fear they never forgot. He had discovered that some of the soft rocks and other things he had found had many uses. Some would burn better than wood for warmth. The gooey, tarry mess he discovered in another place burned better than animal fat for light. And the most wondrous of them all, could be reshaped easier than flint provided there was enough heat from the fire for reshaping. The rock-throwing blond haired hunter was the unfriendly recipient of a spear tipped in metal. It had narrowly missed him, but the point was made. No one dared attack him directly after that demonstration. He ignored the curses from the shaman, who said the gods would punish his unseemly ways. He roved where he wished, when he wished. It was not as if anyone would care if he died. One day, a herd of Mastodon was sighted. All the hunters came to the shaman for his blessing on the hunt, but the shaman only cursed at him. He cursed the shaman back, to the horror of his tribesmen. He went with them to help make a trap for their prey. He brought eight of his best spears he had with him for the hunt. The hunters had separated one from its herd and drove it into the trap. His spear struck deeper then the other hunters as the Mastodon slowly was dying. Too late he realized some of the hunters' intentions. Unknown to him, the shaman had planned this from the outset; that was the only thing it could be. Five hunters attacked him from behind; two he knocked senseless, but the three remaining had cast him into the Mastodon trap. In its dying throes, a massive leg of the mastodon smashed the life from him in an instant….._

_..he awoke and screamed from the pain he felt. Most every bone in his body was broken; he had been smashed to a pulp, but quickly the pain was receding. Soon he was whole, though still somewhat disoriented. He was covered in Mastodon remains and his own blood and mastodon blood. A raw wind let him know where his furs were damaged. After several false starts, he managed to claw his way out of the pit. He had not known how long he had lain there, but the temporary camp of his tribe was abandoned. His other metal tipped spears he had brought were gone as well. He wept, but for only a short amount of time. He knew he had died, but why was he back here? Was he a spirit now? He tripped and cut his leg on a rock, then watched in awe as the cut quickly healed before his eyes. He had no idea what had happened, but his mind turned to other things. Anger at his betrayal (he learned later that it was partly his fault, partly not) and vengeance against his murderers were in his thoughts. If his tribe thought they would be rid of him that easy, they were very wrong. With a grim resolve, he headed back to his home. In his mind, he mulled over what the shaman had taught people to believe and what should be believed. The first scenario could not co-exist with the second. When the shaman's complicity was added to the equation, a whole set of cultural mores and values were dumped into the mental garbage pit. Even in that short moment, he had radically changed._

_He waited until the dark fell, and then silently crept into their camp. His dwelling had been undisturbed, probably due to the shaman wards placed on the hide covering its entrance. He ignored the sigils. Silently he entered. He realized that he was not going to stay here. Sooner or later, their tolerance would turn to intolerance (had it not already?) or his disgust would turn to murderous anger (had that not also happened?). He tossed away his ruined, gore soaked furs and donned the best set he had. Flints for fire when needed and several good spears were collected next. He destroyed what ones he could not carry. He stuffed a hide sack with what food it would hold. His weapon-making tools he had laboriously crafted went into another sack. He had a pot of the tarry, smelly resin stored here as well. A nasty way to get their attention formed itself in his mind. Working as efficiently as he could, soon the resin coated most all of his dwelling. Setting his belongings outside, he ignited the resin with a torch he had lit. The eruption of flame made the camp area as bright as daylight, and the noise and smell drove everyone outside. Some screamed when they saw him and others grumbled menacingly, but most simply ignored him. No violence was really needed to condemn one of their own. To be unacknowledged was a certain death sentence in this time. He knew this was the shaman's doing. It would be pointless to avenge himself on his murderers, but they were not going to profit from their misdeed. With deadly intent, he stalked towards the shaman fool's cave. Several other hunters blocked his path of egress, but he battered his way through them. There the fool was, shaking a rattle at him. He smashed the shaman to the ground with one mighty blow and crushed the rattle underfoot. Then he laid waste to the shamans dwelling, pots of ochre dye smashed into rubbish, bones ground into the dirt. He upended a small jar of tarry resin and ignited it. Soon, the shaman's residence was as ruined as his was. One muscular hand plucked the shaman off the ground then hoisted him off his feet. I am shut of you and the others for good fool! I do not need you to survive! You called me cursed and had those cowards kill me…now they will know you are weak and powerless! He cast him into the dirt, but he was not done yet. There were seven spears that had been stolen from the site of the hunt. These ungrateful bastards would never prosper from their treachery. His fury was white hot as he smashed and battered his way into caves where he knew they would be. He smashed the stolen metal-tipped spears into ruin as well, and then left the camp without looking back…._


	5. Chapter 4

His thoughts centered once again on his present surroundings. The Monsignor was almost finished, thankfully. It was not that Brother Leopold was a bad sort; he was too much like Brother Gregorius in many ways. What splendor of architecture his living area and office comprised; it seemed that he was constantly entertaining person after person. It _had_ been much simpler long ago, with only church and king to complicate things. Now it was securing as much money as possible so more money could be secured. To him, it in no way respected or venerated the worship of God. Now the Brothers and initiates were filing out of the main hall to attend to their various pursuits in the Monastery. As soon as he could venture there without being detected, Brother Timothy ensconced himself in his sanctum, only emerging for the meals and the masses.

It was after the evening meal that Brother Timothy heard a knock on his sanctum door. He quickly opened it; knowing only one person could be there. As quickly as possible, Brother Ignatius shuffled through, and then slowly seated himself. Brother Timothy shut the door.

"Good evening, Brother. Is all well? And I know you were not noticed?"

"As fine as I can be this eve, Brother Timothy. The others' have no use it seems for a doddering old fool, so I came here. You seem to be the only one concerned with my welfare these days."

"I would never call you a fool, Brother. Things have changed so much around here. It is hard to believe that I once settled here and built the original edifice." He laughed. "Are you warm enough? Would you like something to drink?"

Brother Ignatius waved him away. "You have more important things to consider than my welfare, Brother. It still amazes me at times though; you have not changed in appearance since I first arrived here, while I wither and grow old. Tell me, even if we have discussed this before, at times you make it seem a blessing, at others you make it seem a curse. Have you ever fully decided on that yet?"

Brother Timothy sighed, "No, Ignatius. It still at times is both, and will always probably be so. And I do not know why me, and not others. It has been so quiet here for a long time, I am not sure if I could get used to the opposite situation." He gestured at Brother Michel's artwork. "I slaughtered near 30 people that day in only minutes. I did my best to _not_ do so, but I was ultimately provoked."

"You said there are many others like you? And people like us who watch them? Do any watch you as we speak?"

"No, Ignatius. The ones who watch do not know I exist. I made sure of that some time ago. It also helps that we are not in or around a large city. That way, anyone strange to the area stands out more."

"I also get the idea that you have oft dwelled on the concept of God. I never asked you what you thought of that."

"That one is easy, Ignatius. God _hates_ us. Plain and simple as can be it is. No matter what our penance or attempts toward salvation, Hell awaits us for living more than one lifetime. That is why I call immortals 'unshriven'. We are forever damned in the eyes of God!"

"I would think that he would show mercy to all, would he not?" Brother Ignatius looked sad.

"Maybe to those who only had one life, yes, or those that maybe really showed remorse for their actions." _There are some things I never told even you, Ignatius. It is amazing enough that you accept me into your paradigm as I am; I would never want to endanger that._ "I do not think there is any forgiveness for me or those like me, though." He looked at Ignatius with an intent expression. "I think something else is bothering you, though. What is it?"

"Timothy, do you ever…dream?"

"At times I seem to, though they often seem to be flashbacks on places I have been. If you mean dreams in the classic sense, I don't know."

"The last few nights, I have had disturbing dreams. People were fighting and dying in droves. Anger and sadness were wreathed throughout the dreams. Their hair was like a sea of fire.."

Brother Timothy started at that last comment. _Red Hair?_ He knew of some red-haired people at one time; once they were friends as much as possible in his situation, now they were his sworn enemies. _Why would Ignatius be dreaming of them?_ Almost like reflex, he checked the locked desk drawer that held the cross and the tomes. All were there.

"Maybe you should get something from the Apothecary to allow you to sleep restfully. I don't think the dreams are of any consequence."

Later, after Brother Ignatius had left, Brother Timothy dwelt on that once more. He laughed, and this time the laugh held not as much chill. They would not have the gall to visit here. He would know them immediately, and it would be to their detriment. True, he couldn't practice with his sword anymore, but he sparred with a quarterstaff when he could and kept in shape, so he was not completely defenseless. It was just before eleven o'clock in the evening that he turned in to his quarters for sleep.

Lyonal's travel alarm went off at its set time. It was near eleven in the evening. Lyonal awoke, washed his face, combed his hair and put on most of his borrowing outfit. He had packed light, so it took no time to repack. _The less people that see you, the better off you will be. _That part initially was not too hard to accomplish; the general area around his lodgings was deserted. Keeping to the dark as much as possible, he headed out to his destination. _Where you're going is also on the outskirts of that town._ The monastery poked into the sky in a massive silhouette. He paralleled the road so as not to be seen by any of the scattered traffic. The monastery was gated and fenced, but no modifications had been made to the fence. In short order, he passed through a graveyard and was at the wall of the monastery. In his kick sack, he had prepared for the most troublesome of entries, but it turned out to be overkill. _This is going to be a piece of cake, _he thought. The main door was no problem. He had checked for alarms or wires; the only one he found was easy to defeat. Silently as possible, he crept through the main hall, not by the main aisle, but on his knees progressing row through row of the seats there until he was by a set of red carpeted stairs. He paused there, listening for any noise, but he heard nothing. Making sure his cap was in place, he headed towards the door about which he had been informed. _This task should be no problem with someone possessing your skills, _the fop had said. _We know where these items are, but my compatriot is too clumsy and I lack the skills you have. However you enter, what you seek lays under a set of red stairs. But what if I am caught, Lyonal asked. The fop looked at him rather harshly, it would not be a good idea to be caught; better yet, do not be seen. We need this done as clandestinely as possible. _He looked over the combination lock on the door. In moments, that came open as well, but due to the low light, his tools slipped once on the device, scratching the surface. _The door at the end of the hall is where you want to be. It may also be locked, and possibly trapped._ This lock was a digital combination model, versus the tumbler lock on the preceding door. It took him 45 minutes to open it. Perspiring slightly from the stress and concentration, he moved through a study area to a large desk. He had brought a pair of light-enhancing goggles with him which he donned. It gave everything a rather psychedelic color, but he could see as well as needed with no extra light. _In one of those drawers rest the things we wish to have. They may or may not be locked, we do not know._ Childs play, he thought. One drawer held a small crossbow; at first Lyonal thought it was a wall decoration, until he saw the dozen quarrels fastened on one side of it. He decided to leave that be. _There are 4 items to retrieve. _ The lower right hand drawer was locked, but he had no problem defeating the protection. In there were the things he sought. _A half circlet of silver;_ it went into a soft cloth bag he had brought along. _Two tomes we also seek, one in red, the other in red and black._ It was good he had brought extra wrappings along, for the tomes, when handled, seemed to burn his fingers. A quick look verified this; the glove material was damaged, as if eaten though by some acid. _And lastly, a sheet of old parchment and a crucifix. _The fop's expression had grown hard. _It would not be in your best interest to keep the crucifix for yourself. Despite its looks, it would not be saleable, and as I said before, my friend might be upset if he thought you were cheating us._ Lyonal looked in shock at the crucifix he held. Even in the weird light of the goggles, he knew what he was seeing. It was near 10 inches in height and 7 inches across and encrusted with stones. At the intersection of the two pieces a massive stone rested there. _This is not a standard crucifix, he thought. What in hell was something like this doing in a place like this?_ He thought for a moment how much money this would bring, but remembered the hard look the fop had directed at him. The fop had also been right in another respect. There was no way something like this could even be illegitimately sold. On the back of the cross were some notations in Latin. No broker in their right mind would even touch this. He placed it in the sack as well, taking care not to damage the brittle parchment also there. A shame he was not fluent in Celtic runes as his sister was, or in Latin or especially history. Had this been the case, he might have reconsidered this task. As things went, though, Lyonal had no such time for things academic. He closed and locked the drawers, removed the goggles and after making sure nothing seemed amiss, he did the same to the sanctum door. Quietly, he headed to the door under the stairs, but as he turned from the relocked door, he heard footsteps and saw a bobbing light headed his way. _They never said anything about a watchman! _As it went, there was nothing he could really do, though. One path of egress was blocked, the other lay in the direction of the bobbing light. As quietly as possible, he fitted his black clad body into the shadows and waited…

The Monastery had no watchman. What it did have, though, was a monk near 100 years old. Even if Ignatius slept dreamlessly, he did not sleep as long as he used to. He had been given a draught from the apothecary that was supposed to induce sleep, but it had flowed through him like water. Then the dreams had returned, but this time they were in ultra-violent relief and with clarity of the waking state. Many of the slaughtered were fiery red of hair. Some fought back, but most either died of fled in fear. What jolted Brother Ignatius awake, though, was a clear picture of their slaughterer. It was Brother Timothy. He knew it in his heart. But this was not a monk in robes. This was a Celtic warrior soaked in blood, wielding a sword Ignatius had seen many a time. It was the one in the Monsignor's office. The vivid scene of that is what finally jolted him awake. Who was Brother Timothy? After using the lavatory facilities, he had retrieved a flashlight. He intended to go to the rooms under the stairs to find Brother Timothy. It never occurred to him that the monk would not be there. He only knew he had to find Brother Timothy, and he would be in his sanctum. As he rounded the corner and headed towards the door, his flashlight passed over something that was not shadow.

Lyonal was starting to sweat again. It was not a guard, but a wizened old man with a flashlight. He should have no trouble getting around them and out of this place. He moved, only to be frozen by a ripping sound. Some of his clothing was caught on a protrusion on the wall. As he looked at his clothing as best he could, the ripping sound stopped and something fluttered to the floor. _It was his cap! _Freed of its constraints, his red hair seemed to fluff up on his own accord, serving as a damning beacon of recognition. Even the old man could see it. He shined the flashlight directly at Lyonal.

"Who are you, sir? What are ye doing here?" Ignatius croaked.

"I am no one of consequence. I shall be going and will trifle you no further." Lyonal tried to push past the old monk, but the monk fastened a hand on his right arm.

"I know you! You are one of those red-haired devils that have tormented my in my dreams! I will call Brother Timothy and he will put an end to this!" The monk's voice became louder and more strident for a man of his age. He turned away from Lyonal and started back on the path he took.

If this monk called others, he would be in serious trouble. _What in hell did he mean by red-haired devils, _he thought. He could not let this monk warn the others, though. He quickly overtook Brother Ignatius and grabbed him. "You are not going to warn anyone, old man!" He grabbed at the flashlight, but the monk twisted away.

"Someone help me! A red-haired devil assails me!" Lyonal became even more desperate. The old monk showed a surprising amount of strength for his age, but it was to no avail. Ignatius grabbed at his tormentor; he came away with a pendant and a broken chain. In desperation, Lyonal grabbed the flashlight from the monk. Then the monk struck him with a flailing hand in the face, the same one that held a gold chain. Without thinking, Lyonal swung the flashlight at the monks head. The sound of it striking was like a crack of an eggshell. He watched in horror as the monk sagged to the floor, a nasty scalp wound dripping blood very evident. _Now look what you did! _ A voice in his head screamed. _You may have killed him! Flee! Flee for your life!_ He paid good heed to the voice and shortly he was outside the Monastery. He looked over his clothes for any signs of blood, but that was impossible to determine in the night wearing black clothes. He tossed the flashlight in a ditch as he quickly trotted away from the monastery. He would figure out what to do when the time came. Right now, he had to flee.


	6. Chapter 5

Brother Timothy usually had no problem falling asleep, but he never went through a night in dreamless slumber for as long as he could remember. Tonight was no exception…

**Near Jerusalem** **33 A.D.**

_They had crucified him. It was not like they had not crucified many others, but this crucifixion was of significance. The dead one on the cross said even to his dying breath he was the Son of God. He saw many people gather at the foot of the cross and pray to this God. He had belligerently questioned many who believed in this being as such, but their answers baffled him. Even the Hebrew god was more understandable; that was a stretch, since he was used to pantheons of gods, not a single God. Many of the worshippers regarded him with a wary eye, how he carried a massive sword on his back and piece of armor over his left arm in addition to the dress of a Roman citizen. He looked and was every part a warrior, but he did not bother the devotees to this dead man on a cross. A few things he was able to ascertain, though. This Son of God made no effort to resist his executioners. Did that mean he was a coward, or did it mean that he was stronger then they were? In his mind, he could see no reason why you should not try to kill your tormentors. It was also said that this Christ could forgive you if you believed in him. There were many things called sins, and you were absolved of these for your belief. He was tired of the pantheon of gods he still worshipped; even the current ones held no interest. This 'Jesus Christ', as he was called, seemed interesting. He had shocked what Hebrew scholars there were by reading their book…The Tanakh, they called it. A warrior he might be, but he was also an anachronism in this time: He was able to read and write Latin and Hebrew. He also could read and write other tongues, but he kept that knowledge to himself. The more he read of this new religion, though, the more intriguing it became. Worship a god of benevolence and peace instead of gods of death and destruction? He decided to kneel and pray with the others. It could do no harm, he thought. Then the lightning struck, entering his left shoulder area and exiting out the back of his right side. He screamed at the pain and fell to the ground; it had seared every part of his being. He recovered and staggered erect. To this day he had wondered. Why was only he struck with lightning? It was the first reinforcement in his mind of what he had told Brother Ignatius: God will never forgive an unshriven! Instead of one life, we have lived 100's, 1000's! The burns from the lightning never fully disappeared; blackened discolorations from both entry and exit marred his physique. He had never given up, though, but the thought reverberated in his mind….God hates you! He hates you! HE…HATES…YOU!_

An initiate awoke around 3 in the morning, needing to use the lavatory. He did so, and was about to return to where he slept, but he thought he heard a noise. More out of curiosity then of duty, he followed to where he thought he heard the sound. He heard nothing more and was about to go back to sleep when he heard it again. He was near the main hall; that was where he thought the sounds were. There was only a minimal amount of lighting there at this time, but something near the stairs looked out of place. The initiate went over to inspect the area…then gasped in shock. One of the brothers lay there in a pool of blood! What should he do? As modern as the monastery was, it still, by means of its acoustics, damped sound. A shout might not be heard. Then the initiate remembered something about an alarm bell near the postern entrance to the Monastery. Would it still work though? He had to try. The bell was dusty from disuse and somewhat pitted. He remembered some of the history lessons regarding this place of worship. Though the cord on it was frayed, it thankfully still bonged two times in rapid succession for each pull. The sonorous tones penetrated the monastery, to every corner.

Bong! Bong!...Bong! Bong!...Brother Timothy snapped awake in a heartbeat, his reminiscence falling away like a draft of air. It was too early to be the morning summoning. What on earth was…the postern gate bell! That was, or used to be, an alarm bell in case of some emergency. The monastery was equipped with modern alarms though. Oh, if this was a prank, there would be hell to pay! He jumped up off his bed and quickly grabbed a robe from his closet. Once his sandals were on his feet, he threw open his door. Several other doors were open, sleepy and confused Brothers milling around them. A low hubbub of voices seemed to flow around the area as well. "What on earth—" "Who is sounding a bell at this hour!" One of the Brothers noticed that Brother Timothy was not so disoriented. "Brother Timothy, do you know who is ringing that bell at this ungodly hour?" "I don't know who, but it is the alarm bell by our postern gate. Believe me, I will find out who very shortly. The rest of you stay here." Without another word, he headed towards the sound at a trot, rather than a walk. Soon, he came upon the bell ringer. "Initiate! There had best be a good—"The initiate's face was drained of all color as he gestured for Brother Timothy to follow him. When they were in the main area, the initiate pointed with a look of horror on his face. Brother Timothy took only two steps before he smelled…._blood!_ His walk became a run as he headed to where the initiate pointed. Brother Ignatius lay there deathly still in a pool of congealing blood. The body was still warm, but Brother Timothy could feel no pulse. Brother Timothy was in shock, but only momentarily. A quick check told him what he already knew: Brother Ignatius was dead. His skull was fractured. A quick scan of the surrounding area revealed no bloodstains, so he must have been hit with something. _Murder!_ Nothing could be done for the Brother, though. Brother Timothy was sad even as he asked himself, _Who did this? And why?_ That would be for later though, along with his grief. Thankfully, the initiate had quit ringing the bell, but he stood around with a fearful expression on their countenance. "I didn't mean to wake the Monastery, Brother, but I didn't know what else to do!" they stammered. "You did the right thing, initiate. I need you to summon the Monsignor immediately, though." "I am an initiate! What will his reaction be—" "I don't CARE what his reaction will be! You will summon his holy Monsignor ass down here now! You go up those stairs and you pound on his door until he answers. Then you get him down here." When the initiate hesitated, Brother Timothy yelled "DO IT!" That got the initiate in motion. Up the stairs they went at an appreciable speed. The voice of command had never left Brother Timothy, even if it had been a long while since its use.

The Monsignor looked tired, but his eyes were alert as he nearly ran down the stairs. His anger at being awakened dissipated like fog upon hearing out the initiate. When he heard 'murder', and 'blood', he wasted no time in his approach. He arrived at the ghastly scene, and then went white as a sheet. Fortunately, there was only one Brother near the body. "Brother! Where are the others?" "They are still near or in their quarters where I told them to stay. Nothing has been disturbed, but as near as I can see he did not fall. He was struck with something." "I will summon the constable here. Make sure that no one else disturbs this area." The Monsignor whirled around and ran back up the stairs. _Even though he was shocked, he still is able to function,_ Brother Timothy thought. _That is a very good sign._ Stepping away from the body, he seated himself on the floor and waited for the constable's arrival. His eyes caught a glitter of something on the floor, a gold chain with a pendant of some sort partially clasped in Ignatius' hand. _That does not belong to Ignatius,_ he thought. _Whose is it? Perhaps the one who laid him low?_ Brother Timothy decided to pocket the item. He made no disturbance by his action, but inside his thoughts were roiling.

The night was chilly, but the figure that stumbled and ran towards the town nearly out of breath was bathed in sweat, his hair disheveled. _ Murderer! Murderer! You are a Murderer! _ The voice in his head screamed out this taunt at a ragged cant. "_I did not mean to do that!" _ Lyonal screamed out loud at the voice. His hair was a curse all of its own, as red as the flames in the hearth. Once again his head covering had betrayed him, and he could feel the hands of doom endangering his freedom. He had no doubts about the outcome if he were caught. A monk _murdered_ in their own Monastery! A _murder_ committed in process of a theft! No death sentences were handed out these days in England, but actual life with no parole was an option. Stories abounded of those sentenced thus dying in prison. He slowed down to a walk as he approached the outskirts of where he had debarked from the train. He had run most of the way cross-country; in blind panic he had fled. By dint of his own will, he calmed himself down so he could think clearly. _If I fail to do that, I am surely doomed,_ he thought. He was still free and he had some time. He backed into the shadows of an alleyway before removing his borrowing clothes. He balled them up and put them into his duffel bag for later disposal. His next step was obvious,_ flee, and flee, before they clap you in irons!_ He squelched the voice in his head. Yes, he needed to get away from here as fast as possible. A bus? No, they would not be active for hours yet. The train! Yes, that seemed to be the ideal solution. There were always trains running in these parts, what with London and other larger cities close by. That would be his choice, then, train in, train out. They may check the itineraries, though! By that time, he hoped, he would have what business remained concluded, then…Gwyneth had a place in Paris! If he asked, she would let him stay there if needed! Chances are, he could never show his face in England proper again, but was that a real loss? Maybe in a different place he could start anew, turn over a new leaf! It cheered him up enough so that the panicky voices in his head were quelled for the moment. He was in luck; this way station was manned twenty four hours a day. By the time the sun began to rise, he was on a train away from there.

The Constable and his assistants lost no time getting to the monastery. Needless to say, nor did the media vultures, but they were restrained by a score of grim faced Bobbies. This was not a run-of-the-mill investigation, nor the equivalent sort of crime scene. As such, numerous deviations from protocol were undertaken. As delicately as possible, the constabulary went over the crime scene. The area was dusted for prints; a piece of torn, black cloth was found and bagged. No coroner showed up to remove the body. It was near sacrosanct law that no one of the clergy would be subject to the standard post-mortem indignities. The Brothers fingerprints were taken, but done so on-site. This law was in full force still. The monasteries and convents still tended to their own. An eagle-eyed Bobby found the flashlight resting in the ditch. There were no prints on it but the Brothers, but traces of his blood and hairs from his scalp were stuck to its base. The murder weapon was found. Not even two hours had passed before the constabulary was finished. The Constable spoke to the Monsignor. "This is a sorry state of affairs, sir, it is. Who would believe someone would kill an old Monk in a Monastery! Ye can be assured we will find this bastard, and we will throw the book at him. They will not get out from under this, no matter the reason!" Soon, he and his aides were gone, leaving the Monastery in its accustomed silence. The Brothers up until now had been quiet, but now that they were once again alone, they fell to their needed tasks without any wasted motion. A semi-ornate dais was constructed in front of the Altar. As gently as could be, several monks lifted the frail body of Brother Ignatius and placed it on a stretcher-like device. This was transported to a special area in the back, forbidden to all but the Brothers; not even initiates were allowed in these confines. His wound was cleansed, and then he was dressed in finery that befit a fallen Brother. No brown robe graced his body. Instead, he wore a robe of white, and a cap of the same. Then he was carried out and laid on the dais. Initiates and other Brothers then decked the dais with gold-edged cloth. Still others saw to it that a grave was prepared, and a simple marker was engraved. Whoever Brother Ignatius was before entering the Monastery, that did not matter. To the others, that would always be his name. There was one who took no part in these preparations. He was in his sleeping quarters, sitting on his bed and silently weeping. Would he have done the same if Brother Ignatius simply did not wake up one morning? It would never be known, since the Brother had been murdered. His mortal remains would stay on the dais until the next morning, when they would be laid into the earth.

_Who would kill such an inoffensive sort, _the thought raced through his mind. He wiped away tears and cleared his nostrils. _They all die eventually, you know._ This time the voice in his head was almost soothing and caring. Almost. Then the voice turned cold and hollow, the same sort of mental voice he had heard too many times before. _Weakling! Coward! And all you can do is sit here and weep for yet another of those pestilential fools? How much longer will you suffer their presence! They do not care about you; they do not even want to be around you! Still, you willingly expose yourself to the pain?_ He arose in fury and kicked the walls of his quarters as hard as he could. It did nothing to ease the pain; it only caused pain in the foot that struck the unyielding stone. Though it dissipated soon enough, the feeling ended his flow of grief. He sighed heavily, his shoulders rising and falling. _He still never deserved to die that way._ Brother Ignatius was a true servant of the God he worshipped. Could he really say he was the same? He decided to find something to do to take his mind off the emptiness he felt. A quick trip to the lavatory removed most all traces of his crying earlier. He felt a little better. Out in the main hall where Brother Ignatius lay in state, he knelt, crossed himself and said a quick prayer to God. The monastery was mostly silent, but he could hear a clack-clack sound coming from an area towards the rear. He smiled. Maybe some exercise would allow him to focus on what needed to be done. The noise came from one of the exercise rooms. It was filled with a dozen brothers, of which 4 were at rest. The other eight sparred with each other in two's, using quarterstaffs. He was pleasantly surprised some time ago that the Brothers still practiced with these items. For them, it was a way of keeping in shape. Ages ago, an edict was decreed forbidding all acolytes of the Church from wielding a bladed weapon in defense. That did not preclude unarmed combat or items like maces and staves. Maces were carried around by the alleged Paladin's of yore, though a Paladin was given dispensation to wield a sword. For the Monk or equivalent, the quarterstaff was the most well known implement of war. Though it would never protect against a pistol or the like, a good staff wielder could easily stand against a swordsman, or several. The emphasis of a quarterstaff was defense, though, not attack; it was the one drawback to such a weapon. Upon seeing him enter, the eight who sparred stopped what they were doing and looked at him.

"Good day, Brothers."

"And a good day to you, Brother Timothy." Brother George usually acted as the one in charge of the sparring. He was a good, if not a somewhat simpering sort. "It was such a shock to discover Brother Ignatius. I can not imagine who would perform such a foul deed. I understood that you knew him well?"

"That I did, George, that I did. Would there be anyone who would wish to spar with me? I need some activity to take my mind off of some things."

At his invitation, several of the monks shuffled nervously and refused to look at his hooded visage. It was Brother Karl who spoke for the group.

"You take the sparring too seriously, Brother Timothy. We do not seem to heal from the bruises as quickly as you do, that is, even if you were ever bruised. I have seen you knock around and disarm 3 Brothers at once. We do like you being here when training is given, but you know as well as I we are no match for you. Maybe some other time, when we can heal from our bruises in a stately manner?" The brothers turned away from Brother Timothy as if they were dismissing him. In actuality, they were.

_See, I told you!_ The voice in his head mocked him. _They want absolutely nothing to do with you! You are only tolerated here, not accepted! _ Brother Timothy ignored the voice for the good of the other Brothers as he quickly left. Bah! If he could find no solace with them, then he would in his sanctum.

Almost by reflex he headed towards the inconspicuous door. Quickly, he approached the door and looked at the lock after making sure no one saw him there_._ He was in process of unlocking it when he noticed a blemish on the lock facing _that was not there before!_ He had traveled here so much he knew everything in this area. _The door to his sanctum!_ Then he stopped. If he turned 180 degrees, he would be looking at the spot where they had found Brother Ignatius. It was a straight line to the door. But he had left here long before Brother Timothy had left that night. Why would he have been there? He looked at the area where they had found the piece of black cloth. If he stood where they found that piece of cloth, then he would not be so easy to spot, _especially in the dark. But Brother Ignatius had had a flashlight! _ So he was headed _towards_ here? And possibly surprised his murderer hiding…here? From the area where the cap was found, it was a straight shot to the door as well. It was too much coincidence to be ignored. Quickly, he unlocked the door, slipped inside, and closed the entrance. Now that his suspicions had been sufficiently raised, it was almost too easy to see what needed to be seen. The rug here had scuff and dirt marks that were _not_ his own. They led to the sanctum door. That door also opened with no problems, but it still didn't mean something wasn't amiss. He turned on the light. _Someone broke into my sanctum. They were about to flee when they were surprised by Brother Ignatius. They killed him to prevent…_what? Maybe he was going to sound an alarm! He scanned the interior. Nothing looked amiss. _The Desk! _One after the other, he opened all the desk drawers and inspected their contents. When he reached to open the lower right one, he noticed a gouge on the wood by the lock _that had not been there before!_ Hastily, he opened the drawer. The half circlet made of silver. _Gone! _ The writ and the cross. _Gone! _ There had been 5 tomes in there as well. _Two of them were GONE!_ He sat there for what seemed hours in shock. Someone had broken in to here and stolen some items, then killed the one who saw them. The shock was replaced by a calculated look. _Think, damn you, think! _ Silver was not worth much today. Taking the circlet was pointless, at least for the silver in it. The Papal cross was in essence priceless, but worthless. No way could any thief sell that. The Latin on its back would be the most damning incrimination. The tomes were not worth anything but to him. Why? He paced back and forth, racking his brains for a reason. _Wait! _ There would be someone else who would consider the tomes valuable. _A sea of hair looking as if was on fire._ The tomes were valuable items in the wrong hands, _theirs! That is, if they destroyed them and somehow killed me….._The other items besides the tomes _were things he held dear as possessions or I myself consider valuable…except if the half circlet was taken for the same reasons as the tomes..…_ A provocation? Why not just smash down this edifice? He dismissed that thought. No way in hell could that be done! But if these things were taken from here so that I would go after them…..the calculated look fell away from his features in an instant. Replacing the shock was a look of fury that would have frightened anyone had they seen it. _You know who did this, somehow they did this without you knowing, and had it not been for Ignatius surprising the thief,_ Inever would have known. This put a whole different light on things, a whole different light. _So you sought to provoke me and gain the upper hand, did you?_ His laugh out loud was as chilling as it had been long ago. _I still remember who I was, and now you will pay dearly for your trespass!_ He would have to make some plans, though. Unfortunately, those plans would have to involve at least one mortal. Despite the shock at the theft, Brother Timothy smiled. For once in a long, long time, he and the voice in his head were in total agreement.


	7. Chapter 6

_Duncan saw a monk cowled in the traditional brown robes of their calling. "Darius!" He yelled a greeting as he walked towards the monk. Then he noticed something odd; several things odd, actually. Darius almost never went hooded; this monk was hooded so only his mouth and chin showed. This monk seemed more physically imposing as well. "Darius? Is that you?" Duncan hesitated. Suddenly, blue quickening fire traveled up the monks left arm and over his body. Duncan had his sword, but hesitated to draw it. The monk reached both his hands around his right shoulder. Duncan recognized that sound: it was a sword being drawn from a sheath. Almost without thinking, his Katana snapped into a two-handed guard stance. His Katana seemed seriously puerile against what the monk now held. Darius had never owned a sword, let alone one this size, and this monk treated it like it was a stick. Without even a word, the monk charged towards him, wielding that whistling sword of death….._

Duncan jerked awake so violently that he fell off the bed to the floor. _ What the hell was that?_ He sifted through his memories. _Had I had met some one like that, I would have remembered._ That sword the monk held; that was no ordinary sword. He remembered seeing some runes etched on its surface. _Celtic?_ He thought. He put the crazy dream out of his head as he conducted his morning routine. He practiced for what seemed hours, but it was no longer than usual. He had a date with an attractive lady tonight, and that was what was mostly on his mind. He picked up the paper and glanced at the headline:

**Monk murdered in Monastery!**

A horrifying sight beheld Brothers of The Monastery of St. Timothy….

Duncan cast the paper on the counter in disgust. _Wasn't anything sacred, anymore,_ he there had been a murder in a church of all places? He knew it hadn't been the first time, but he hoped they put the bastard in jail when they found him. Too bad Europe did not have the death penalty at times. He looked around for something less disturbing to read. Then a familiar tingling was felt on the edge of his consciousness. A knock sounded on his door. He laid a hand on his sword. "Who is it?"

"Who do you think, Duncan?" A male voice, one who Duncan recognized. He opened the door to admit a rather lanky looking brunette.

"How are things, Methos?" Methos looked at him and smiled. "About as well as they could be, I suppose. I suppose I should say I feel old, but that would be irrelevant, wouldn't it?" Both men laughed at that comment. Methos was a surviving sort. He was at least 5000 years old by his own reckoning, and was counted as the oldest living immortal. His memory was spotty on where he was born, but his looks were Romano-Etruscan. Duncan had discovered him some time ago masquerading as, of all possible things, a watcher. They had become fast friends ever since. Methos' sword fighting skills had become rusty, so Duncan regularly sparred with him.

"I am going out with Sheila tonight." Duncan said.

"What led you to do that? You know what she is like, Duncan. The bubbly, bimbo type. She is not your speed" Methos poured himself a cup of coffee.

"That's how it goes. Maybe she will lose interest in me, though. At least with her, unlike Amanda, I won't have to get involved in a swordfight." He chuckled. "Have you heard of her latest project? She wants to find out who made the rules for combat!" He looked at Methos, who now gazed at him with a guarded expression.

"Those rules simply exist, McLeod. Some things should not be questioned." He continued drinking his coffee, but he still had that weird look on his face.

"Lighten up. Methos! It was supposed to be a joke! Also, do you know any immortals that run around as monks?"

"Darius…but he is dead, MacLeod."

"Not Darius, maybe another one, with a big ass sword with runes all over it?"

Methos choked on his coffee. After wiping his face, he looked at MacLeod. "That was not funny, Macleod. Why do you ask?"

"I had a dream that they attacked me last night. It was weird. I saw quickening fire on him, but he had not even taken a head." Duncan shrugged, "It was a rather weird dream; I don't think I have met one like that before."

"And trust me, you do NOT ever want to!" Methos said almost vehemently. Duncan was about to reply to the vehemence when Methos looked at the cast aside paper. Then he looked at it again. Then he grabbed it and was reading the front page story. He looked at Duncan in horror. His face was drained of all color. Then he looked at the article again and mouthed softly. "What in hell have they done!" He drained his mug and got up from the table.

"I have to go MacLeod. I will see you later…..hopefully." Before Duncan could say another word, Methos was gone in a flash. _Now what the hell is bugging him?_ Something had scared him, but not before the comment about the monk. Duncan read the article about the killing. _I never even heard about that Monastery_. He had dreamed about a monk though. _They come from Monasteries, don't they? _ Ridiculous, he thought. He would worry about Methos later. Right now, he had to figure out how to survive his engagement this evening.

Methos was far less at ease. He walked at a fast pace as dusk approached. _Of all places, why there! WHY THERE!_ He knew why, to some extent. Only some of it though. Maybe the murder was a random act of violence, maybe it was that. _Bullshit!_ His mind screamed. _That was done to provoke!_ And provoke it would. Over 700 years of relative peace would go poof in a second's time. _There has to be a reason! What reason…they think they may have the upper hand! _ He knew of both factions. He did not want to know, but he did. _Who should I fear more?_ He thought. Side one had no respect for any rules, period. Combat, anywhere, anyplace, anytime, and one on one was almost never the case. _They are the ones you should watch out for…they will be after you first off!_ But then there was side two. They obeyed the rules, most of the time. Except when attacked by side one. He sniggered. _Yes, side two obeys the rules. Of course if your 20 opponents are turned into bloody hamburger, isn't that academic?_ And here he was, conveniently caught in the middle. _Let's see. Will I choose the psychopathic cannibals or the homicidal, duty-bound maniac? That is if any of either side is still alive._ Some choice, he thought. _The choice he really had was what side would kill him first._ You bastards! Why did you put me in the middle of this shit! Thankfully, he had his sword with him, because as he headed down an alleyway towards his home, he felt the familiar tingling. Whoever that was, it was NOT a friend, either! _To those about to die, we salute you,_ he murmured as he raised his sword to do what Duncan had stated at one time so well: "It's what we do!" No more time to think as steel met steel in a deadly dance…

Methos was absolutely right about Sheila, Duncan thought. He did his best to be attentive, but she was basically a vocal cord attached to a nice body. There seemed to be no discernible intelligence. She prattled on endlessly about all manner of insipid things that made Duncan wince. _There most assuredly is more than one sort of hell,_ he thought. He sighed. Time to tune back in to his punishment…."You know Duncan, I like the clothiers at St. Pierre's. They have such a wonderful selection! All the colors that a woman could want to match anything she wears. Are you listening to me?"

"Yes I am, Sheila. Would you like any more wine?"

She giggled. "Duncan, I am not that sort of woman! You want me drunk so you can take advantage of me…_not hardly…._oh! Look at the pretty fireworks, Duncan!"

He glanced where she pointed. What looked like fireworks or such crackled along several buildings, died out, then flared anew. Other people in the restaurant oohed and ahhed as they saw the same thing. Wait…that wasn't fireworks. That was quickening fire! It was also near where Methos lived! _I will see you later…hopefully._ He had to get away and find out what had happened. _We do NOT battle within sight of mortals!_ Thankfully, Sheila solved the dilemma for him. "Could you be a dear and take me home, Duncan. I believe I have had enough excitement for one evening." Her rather vacuous sounding voice tried to have a sultry tone to it. Oh_ god,_ he thought, _there was more than one sort of hell!_

Only moments after he had dropped her off, he was speeding towards the area of the battle. She had wanted him to come in for awhile, but Duncan was only too glad to play the gentleman and demur. He slowed down as he heard the sirens. It would do him no good to show up there. Headless corpses meant lots of Gendarmes or Police or Bobbies or…whatever. He knew another route to Methos' house though. Shortly, he arrived there. Methos was there in front, feverishly throwing things into a car. Clothes, books, whatever, in no particular order or neatness. He looked severely disheveled. There were numerous slashes all over his clothing, stained with blood. Duncan was relieved, but also somewhat angry. Methos had fought whoever, and no less than 40 or 50 people got to see the 'fireworks' display. He got out of the car and walked towards Methos. "Meth—" More like an animal than a human, Methos dropped the box he carried. Something broke inside it. He whipped around with a snarl, sword cutting in a deadly slash aimed at Duncan's belly. Duncan leaped back. "Methos! It's Duncan! What in hell are you doing?" Methos lowered the sword. He did look like hell, though. _He just had another quickening, of course he looks like hell._ "What in hell is going on, Methos? You know the rules! A whole bunch of people saw that quickening! Thank God they thought it was fireworks! And what are you doing?"

"Methos stopped packing for a second and glared at Duncan. "As if I had any choice. AS IF I HAD ANY CHOICE! Two bastards attacked me at once! Should I lose my head to preserve the rules?"

"Two of them? That is also against the rules! It still doesn't explain what you are—"

"The bloody hell with the rules, MacLeod! Your precious rules are about to be flushed down the toilet!" Methos was smiling, but it was more a smile of one near to losing his mind. "Soon, it will be open season on all immortals and watchers! All of them. Tonight was only the start. I am surprised that I am still alive, though. These were only shock troops. I am not going to be around when the others come!"

"What others?" Duncan had never seen Methos like this before. He was.._scared out of his wits. _"What you are saying makes no sense! We do not need another war between Watchers and Immortals!"

"Who said between Watchers and Immortals? Neither group will tolerate watchers. And while one of the sides wants all the immortals dead except their own, the other side is much better at racking up a body count on whoever gets in their way." Methos laughed again, a short barking laugh. He once again began to manically load his car, ignoring Duncan.

Duncan had had enough. He stalked up to Methos, grabbed him by the shoulder, and spun him around. "What sides? What in hell are you talking about! We do not need another war!"

Methos twisted out of his grip and stared at Duncan. "Too late regarding the war, MacLeod." He laughed bitterly. "The die was cast when they killed that monk. You do not want to know, Duncan! Stay the hell out of this if you value your head. You are as headstrong as Amanda at times, you know that? As for what I am doing, I am getting far, far away from here, BEFORE I get more visitors! You would be advised to do the same."

"What do you mean sides in battle? Does Dawson or any off the others know?"

Methos shook his head. "They will soon enough. The two I killed butchered 3 watchers before they came after me. I managed to kill both of them, but this is only going to be the beginning. That monk will go after them, regardless of how many he has to kill. They will also do the exact same thing."

Duncan did not like being lied to for any reason. "Then you know who that monk his! Why did you lie to me?" Duncan's voice had taken on a dangerous edge.

"So I can save your meddling head from parting from your body! And mine as well! You have a penchant of sticking your head in places where it could get chopped off. If I say anymore, then its open season on me! I am not going to stick around for that; I am getting out of here!" Methos let out a long sigh as his shoulders slumped. "Listen, MacLeod. I am a lot older than you are; I have seen a lot more things. Here is some good advice. If you ever see an Immortal who makes you feel ill when they are known to you, that speaks a dead language as if it were their own, wields weapons and armor of an unknown nature, or shows quickening fire before a battle, run. Run like hell away from them. You will not be able to stand against them in battle; they despise peace in any form! Don't ever think for a moment that you can." Methos jumped into his car and started it.

"Like that Monk?" Duncan said. He received no answer, though. Methos' car had already rounded the corner and was out of sight. Shortly thereafter, Duncan left as well. There was someone he had to talk to right away. Also, it seemed more carloads of Gendarmes were showing up in the area, an even better reason to leave.

As the sun started on its path to sunrise, Lyonal arrived back at his home. As nervous as he had been at the time of his initial flight, he now was as calm as could be considering the situation. He stashed his kick bag under his bed after making sure the things he had taken were still there. He was dressed in non -descript slacks and shirt; his black outfit rested in a garbage can where he had left it. He still needed to get away from here, but he would make those plans as soon this business was finished. _Then go far, far away,_ he thought._ Maybe I should try to earn a legitimate living?_ God forbid that! He laughed at the idea of him punching a clock. Suddenly, he gasped. He was wearing a chain around his neck, but when he looked for it, its weight and feel were absent from his neck. It pained him that he had lost it, but such are the prices you pay, he thought. He gave the matter no further thought.

Gwyneth had heard Lyonal arrive, but she was still sleepy. Even if those pills made her groggy, the sure as hell stopped any dreams from occurring. She went back to sleep, but she did not know that the pill she had taken was largely gone from her system….

_…it was as if she was an observer to what she was watching. Dawn had just shortly passed, and the sun shone brightly on what seemed an idyllic scene. She could almost smell the scent of wildflowers on the breeze as she gazed at a rather imposing structure. It looked very old and serene. As she looked closer, she saw signs of neglect or…apathy. Bones littered the front area of the dwelling, and unbridled moss crept over the stones. Ivy also crept up its sides, but it was not trimmed or constrained in any way. She heard noises around the other side, so it seemed to her that she traveled there. Was it like a camera view or did she walk? She did not know. In front of the dwelling sat 2 children and a woman. Their attention was focused on …eating something? The three of them looked up, not at her, but off in the distance somewhere. All three had the brightest red hair that could be imagined. Their faces were stained with crimson from their repast. Strange, she thought, wouldn't they cook…..she glanced at the ground around the three…and then she saw the corpse. No animal was this. It was a …CHILD! The children each had an arm; the woman gnawed on a leg. MYGODMYGODMYGOD! The revulsion struck like a sledgehammer in her gut. THEY WERE EATING A CHILD….CANNIBALS! The woman ceased eating though. She had a look of fear on her countenance. The children continued their repast unmindful, but the woman slowly rose. She grabbed what looked like a spear lying by her side. Slowly the scene shifted and soon she saw what the woman saw. In a slow, measured march, about a dozen…warriors? Yes warriors approached. All had weapons of a golden sort of sheen…bronze? She thought. All but one. They stopped mere feet from the woman. She conversed with one who seemed to be at their head, but she could not hear what they said. The other warriors seemed silent from shock as they stared at their grisly meal. Their speech grew ever more strident as the one warrior's features turned more and more furious. This warrior wore a Silver Half-Circlet on his brow, a lone rune its only decoration. No shield did he carry; instead his whole left arm from shoulder to hand was wrapped in some metal. And no sword did he carry in his hand; The Pommel and hilt of one showed over his shoulder. He looked a chieftain…no…he was not a chieftain….he was a…King. She did not know how she knew this, but she knew. The cannibal woman spat out one last sentence, then yelled shrilly, as if warning someone inside the dwelling. She lunged toward the one with the circlet, spear upraised, but the effort was futile. At near blinding speed, he drew the sword he carried on his back. It whistled as he spun it around in a deadly arc. Her spear thrust was stopped when it broke against the sword; the follow through on the blow dropped the woman in a spray of blood. By this time the other warriors had gotten over their shock. They advanced at a fast run towards the dwelling. The children were killed as well. The doors of the dwelling burst open as many red-haired men and women swarmed over the warriors…..the sword whistled through the air as it sang its song of death._

She jolted awake, her clothes soaked in sweat. Despite this, the horror she had seen had left her chilled to the bone. _They were humans, and they were eating children! _ Then her mind focused as best she could on their slaughterer. He could have been a chieftain, but somehow she knew...he was a king. She grabbed a sheet of paper and pen, but could only vaguely trace the rune she had seen on his …_crown?_ But it was so…plain. And if what the other warriors carried was bronze…what sort of metal was the king's sword made of? It looked like iron, but if it were, why did the others carry bronze. She also remembered one other thing: The other warriors were for most part light complected, but the one with the crown, his hair was as dark brown as the soil. _Could this be the King of the Celts I saw?_ She laughed at herself. Dreams did not a thesis make, especially ones that made no sense. She still felt tired, but better that than the dream she had just had. Still, what she had remembered from the dream cycled through her mind. _Why am I having these dreams and what in hell do they mean?_ With a start, her eyes widened. It couldn't be possible, but the woman cannibal _looked a lot like her!_

Duncan had no problems finding Dawson and company. Outside his Bistro were two large men. Without a word, they waved him inside. Dawson was in his usual corner, but so were a few others. Duncan did not have to guess that some of them would at least be armed. Two of his compatriots gave Duncan an ugly look. "Dawson, did you find out who those two immortals were?"

Dawson appraised Duncan coolly. "How did you know there were two of them? And, DAMMIT, why are three watchers dead? I thought this had been settled?" His expression was livid.

"Methos was there. He killed them."

"THE WATCHERS!"

"NO! He killed the two immortals. He said they had killed the watchers before they found him!" Duncan told all present what Methos had said. Dawson was silent, but one of his friends spoke.

"Since when do we even let immortals know we exist, and why are you so friendly with this god forsaken—"

"You can shut the hell up now!" Duncan canted his gaze towards the speaker. The speaker slowly pulled open his jacket to show the butt of a large pistol. "And maybe I will shove that up your ass if you pull it?" Duncan had a sort of smile on his countenance, but not a friendly one.

"Stop it, both of you!" Dawson turned to his friend. "MacLeod here can be trusted, and I will unconditionally trust his word!" He looked sadly at Macleod. "I hope you understand. One of the watchers had a wife and two kids." He then addressed the group. "We have a lot of work to get done, and a lot will be research. We have no idea who those immortals are or were, MacLeod. They were not in our database. Get to it!" Soon, Dawson and Macleod were alone.

"Dawson, do you know of any other immortals dressed as a monk?"

"Darius is the only one of which we have a record. Can you give a better description?"

"It was in a dream, Dawson. That sword he wielded, though, that should stand out. Whoever he is, Methos sure as hell was scared of him. More so than fighting near a public place. The people who saw thought it was only fireworks, though." He laughed.

"MacLeod, that is not funny; this may cause some unwanted fireworks though, if we are not careful. I have a lot of work to do. I will let you know if I find out anything. Maybe you might want to keep an eye on Amanda. She is researching about the rules, you know. "They both laughed at this, but then Duncan grew serious. "Methos mentioned something about the rules going to hell last night. Do you think there is some connection?" He sighed, "It is a good thing I keep in practice with my sword." He and Dawson both arose and shook hands. "MacLeod, be careful out there and watch yourself." _ This may get far worse before it gets any better,_ he thought


	8. Chapter 7

Brother Timothy had spent the afternoon walking around the monastery planning strategy, which unfortunately involved how to broach a rather anomalous matter with the best chance of success. He had cemented some nonnegotiable facts in his mind. _I will have to retrieve the stolen items. I will find Ignatius' murderer as well. They will also probably be out looking for me, so I will need to defend myself. I need my sword and greave and sheath. _ There was the roadblock right there. His crossbow he had in his possession. The sword, greave and scabbard were of a different matter. They were locked in a display case in the Monsignor's office. Soon after he had returned from killing the Viking marauders, he had quietly as possible returned the sword and greave to the wall pegs. If the monks had only avoided him earlier, they were petrified with fear after that incident. The items were left right where they were. Sometime in the mid 1600's, the reigning Monsignor had decided that the items were too valuable to be left out in the open like that as well as being potentially dangerous. That was about the time that the present Monastery was being built, so a display case for the items was also constructed. To this day, that was where they rested. Many avenues of seizing them were mulled over, from the simplest to the most intricate, but discarded. _You will have to somehow take the Monsignor into your confidence._ His current thoughts were on that topic. He could talk to the Monsignor in their office. _ Hello, Monsignor, I have been here 1400 years or so and I need the artifacts._ He laughed out loud. Then he might wind up under a doctor's care. _ He could steal the artifacts._ No, that would have been possible until relatively recent times, but not since a high-tech alarm system had been installed in that area, separate form the one that (failed to protect) the monastery. If he were discovered, that would only cause more problems, and many questions he would not want to answer. _Have the Monsignor find you in your sanctum, then tell him…._ Hmm, that might work, he thought. The idea was discarded forthwith. He had all sorts of incongruities stored there, but considering the Religion-Inc. style of thinking of the day, there was no way he could protect what was his. Some of those items would be worth an obscene amount of money, let alone the questions they would raise. _So Brother Timothy, how is it you have "Massacre of the Heretics" on a sheet of vellum? And this item is nearly 1000 years old? _ He laughed. That would not be a good idea. _My sanctum is mine and mine alone. Even Brother Ignatius respected that._ That only left one possible solution if theft was not the other: He would have to directly confront the Monsignor. _What if he does not believe you or turns out like Brother Gregorius?_ That brother lived for 12 years after the conflagration he had witnessed, insane to the very end. Had not Brother Leopold been so fearful, he would have had trouble with him as well. _I made more than one enemy that day._ _It was a good forty years or so before some semblance of peace was restored there, thanks to the battle of Hastings._ The Monsignor was a learned man, though;most of the Brother's were. But it would take a strong constitution to digest what he had to say and have it accepted. _There is really no other realistic choice._ Brother Timothy sighed in resignation. He would have to confront Monsignor Leopold. He needed to balance proper timing with the need for haste, though. _I may as well prepare for my journey, though. _He had no doubt in his mind that he would be traveling, with or without co-operation. Tomorrow would be the funeral and burial of their fallen Brother, but afterwards he could approach the Monsignor. For now, there were a few things he could do. As soon as he could get to his sanctum, he started to prepare. The deadly little crossbow was placed in a pocket of his robe. A small but heavy box was dragged out of a remote corner and inspected. The lead lining of the box was for good reason; its contents were still somewhat radioactive. _I am hoping the sword and greave are in good order, but best to prepare for the worst._ A battered but sturdy pouch held a set of smithy tools that might be needed. Another box held a wide variety of coinage. Next, he started up an older but adequate computer so that he could type a document and do some research. The Monsignor was not only Jesuit trained, but held an advanced degree in history. _Good,_ he thought. Education he had found could be a double-edged sword in some cases, but a higher level of it was by far the better. _I do not need any more Monsignor Michel's either._ He printed the document and sealed it in an envelope; if he died, there would be no more reason to hoard what he had collected. When he was done, he powered down the computer, turned out the lights, and locked the door. He managed to get the heavy box to his sleeping quarters without anyone noticing. _I have now done all I can to prepare. The other things I need I will have to bargain for as best as I may. _As he drifted off into sleep, his last thoughts were of another human…

The object of his intentions was getting more nervous by the hour. The items were stashed under his bed still, but no one had contacted him yet. _We will know when you are back, and forthwith someone will contact you to drop off the items,_ the fop had said. At least he had put the murder away from his foremost thoughts. He had largely rationalized it away as an unfortunate accident. As soon as he was shut of these items, he would make arrangements to go to Paris. He had not yet asked Gwyneth about the place in Paris, but he would soon. She had been out of sorts for a while it seemed. She looked so tired, as if she had not been sleeping well. There were times he wished he could be as studious as she was; her work was honest and probably did not leave any regrets. _It also seems boring, too._ He laughed at that thought. Boring was never his cup of tea, but nor was murder, either. After making sure the items were still in their hiding place, he decided to go out for a drink or two.

The morning dawned at the Monastery clear but with a chilling wind. As a break from their usual routine, all of the Brothers were up before 6 a.m. There was a funeral to attend; due to the lack of the higher levels of embalming technology, these were carried out in as quick a manner as possible. After their fallen Brother was interred, there would be homilies and a period of mourning set aside. Such as it had been, such as it still was now. The brothers formed in a line of three abreast; no less than 12 carried Brother Ignatius in a simple coffin of wood. Once they arrived at the burial site, several Brothers began to dig in the loam, but it was only a symbolic shovelful; the grave was already completed. After a prayer was said by the Monsignor, Brother Ignatius was lowered into his final resting place. Though all the Brothers were silent and somber during this proceeding, there was one present who if silent in voice, was not so in thought. _Rest in peace, Ignatius. You should not have departed the earth in this way. You were supposed to fail to awake one morning. I do not know if it is indirectly my fault or not, but your murderer will not escape me. Even if that is not in keeping with the teachings of the bible, I will answer to some deities that are older in concept…and in method._ He gladly helped to fill in the grave and mount the simple headstone that was Brother Ignatius' final legacy to the mortal world. And as one parting gift of respect, he freely spoke a holy paean in Latin. _The hell with what they think!_

_It is time to state my case, _Brother Timothy thought as he went up a flight of stairs to the Monsignor's office. The Brother's were awfully quiet after the funeral; had it been a younger member, they may have conversed with each other. Brother Ignatius, however, was an anachronism due to his age. The oldest one present now besides him was barely 60; it would be awhile he hoped before any more funerals happened. At the top of the stairs, he was greeted with a spectacle that left him near speechless. _A far cry from what I expected. _He supposed it was mostly his fault for not keeping up on things. The reception room was ornate by any standard; from the leather furniture to the crushed velvet draperies, it reeked of excess to him. His momentary frown was replaced by a sigh and a smirk. _I suppose you can not run Religion Incorporated from a stone and mortar edifice, but this?_ He was so lost in contemplation of his surroundings that he walked right into a desk. That brought him out of his reverie. There was a person at the desk, a young male.

"Good Afternoon, Brother. How may I help you?"

"I am here to see the Monsignor. I do not recall you being a Brother though?"

The receptionist laughed. "Oh no, I could never live in a place like this. The Monsignor is always busy, though, so he hired an administrative assistant. Do you have an appointment to see him?"

_Yes, things have really changed around here. _"I was not aware one was needed to see my superior. This is a matter of some importance, though."

"I will see if he is free, but it is standard to set an appointment these days!" The assistant looked perturbed that his daily routine was interrupted, but he picked up a phone and began to speak into it. Brother Timothy used that time to inspect his surroundings further. The rug was some insanely thick shag carpet; he did not like its feel , being as used as he was to more simple decorations. Hell, this looked more like a drawing room to a whorehouse than a respectful salutation to authority. Even his sanctum would look like a hovel compared to this! His reverie was broken by the assistant.

"You are very fortunate, sir. The Monsignor is free now and will see you. Go down the hall, first door on the right." The assistant went back to some work on his computer; as far as they were concerned, Brother Timothy no longer existed. He shrugged and followed the directions given. The hall was a startling length, but at last he stood in front of a solidly built double door. He was about to reach for the latch when it opened from within.

"Greetings! I must apologize for my assistant; he is such a stickler fro the rules, but you know how things can get, Brother…."

"..Timothy. Brother Timothy." He was ushered into the Monsignor's office and the door was closed. Monsignor Leopold was an average-built but wiry-looking male, thoroughly banal in appearance. His baldness almost made his hair resemble a tonsure, though, and his eyes flickered with intelligence.

"I apologize for that; it is not often that one of us comes up here to visit. How may I be of service to you, Brother Timothy?"

"I am curious regarding that reception room's décor. It looks quite costly; when was that done?"

"Oh that. We hired a business consultant to achieve the best look possible for the visiting guests. As much as we are of a pious nature, these days it makes many uncomfortable to see our spartan living area. Interfacing with the world outside is a necessity; we even have our own web page! I am sure you did not arrive to discuss the décor, though?"

"You are correct. My main reason for being here is I am in need of a dispensation to travel outside these walls for an indefinite period of time."

The Monsignor thought for a moment. "That would comprise a rather irregular request; most often there is an itinerary submitted for approval. I would need to know the reason to grant such an item?"

"It concerns the person or people that murdered Brother Ignatius. They also stole some items from this Monastery. It is tantamount that they be retrieved as quickly as possible."

Leopold's expression became stern. "That is a matter for the constabulary to address, as well as any other matters of that sort! Why was this theft not reported to them? And what was taken? I will notify them forthwith!" Leopold reached for the phone.

"After you hear me out, you will agree with me that the constabulary will not be involved. The items that were taken were meant to provoke, some of them at least. The other items would be dangerous in the wrong hands and even to this very edifice. No, this has gone beyond their scope." As was his usual sort of dress, Brother Timothy had his hood in place. He stood and stared at the Monsignor.

"That is still a matter for the law of the land!" Leopold snapped, "Even more so if what you say is true." The Monsignor had the receiver off the hook and was preparing to dial.

Brother Timothy suddenly figured out an appropriate way to approach this. "You are fond of the public eye, Monsignor, are you not? Would a Papal cross and a letter of Excommunication against this monastery be good publicity? Those were 2 of the items stolen from this place of worship." His statement had the desired effect. The Monsignor replaced the phone in its cradle.

"A papal cross? And a writ of Excommunication? I have no knowledge of any such action against this Monastery!"

"Because it was never enforced. Its carriers all died before the action could be carried out, but the writ is still in force. What would Rome do if they found out that cross had been here for nearly 800 years?" He had the Monsignor's undivided attention. "I am sure they will see your side of the story, won't they?"

The Monsignor's gaze was piercing. "That is not a trivial matter that you speak of, Brother. Something of that magnitude could damage this monastery irrevocably! You can also tell me why that out of all here, you are the only one that goes around with your hood of your robe raised? I find it not only impolite, but very disconcerting, as if you have something to hide! And you have not yet explained how this cross came into our possession. Come on now, man, this is not the middle ages anymore! And did you need to use Latin at the service?"

"Maybe they should teach Latin to the Brothers. It was a sign of respect for Ignatius. I wear my hood for the same reason you avoid bad publicity; you prefer not to be noticed in that way, whereas I do not wish to be noticed at all." Without being invited, Brother Timothy took a chair in the office and pulled back his hood. "As to how the cross came to be in possession of this Monastery, the truth would not sit well with what you believe." As he spoke, Brother Timothy glanced around the office. Behind the Monsignor was a glass case in which the artifacts rested. The sword was in the center while the greave was to one side. The item in the case to the left of the artifacts was even more interesting. It was a broken spear crusted with dried blood. "They have the spear as well? I didn't know they had saved it." The Monsignor waved away the comment. "It is amazing what superstition reigned at that time, but you digress. How did that cross come into our possession?"

"As I said, it was taken by force from a dead Inquisitor. The Writ was never carried out. What sort of superstition surrounds that spear?" _How do I get by this recalcitrance? This was unexpected. _

"Allegedly, it mortally wounded some Brother a long time ago, but they extracted the spear and healed themselves. Now, are you going to explain yourself or waste more of my TIME?" Leopold was definitely growing agitated. "And what else was taken from here!"

He saw only one way to resolve this matter, for better or worse. Brother Timothy arose from his chair and stalked over to the Monsignor's desk, "As much as I hoped to be able to explain myself properly, I think this level of living has dulled your perspective, Monsignor." He quickly found a letter opener on the desk and picked it up. "The cross is all that concerns you, Monsignor. The other items would only concern me…and those who are my enemies. There is no easy way for me to explain what I am to someone as educated as you, so I suppose I will have to demonstrate. Would you agree this letter opener is sharp?"

"What are you doing? Are you mad?" Leopold backed away from Brother Timothy.

"No I am not, but you possess an unbelievable recalcitrance and mental myopia. I find it hard to believe you are actually one of us even. I can imagine why none of the brothers wish to venture here; this extravagance is rather sickening. Would you agree, however, that this is sharp? Sharp enough to pierce my left hand if I drive it into it?"

"Of course, but why would you—"

"—I need to prove a point to you, Monsignor. Brother Ignatius knew what I was, but he is dead. I am in need of your co-operation now, and to make sure that we see eye to eye on some matters, you have to know that I will be telling you some truths you may not want to hear. You have become so accustomed to this irritating extravagance that this is the only way I can see how to do that." Without further speech, Brother Timothy plunged the letter opener into his left hand, transpiercing it and embedding the point into the desk top.

"What are you doing! Why did you just injure yourself like that? What possible point can you hope to prove except that you are not in your rational mind?" Blood trickled out from around the wound and down Brother Timothy's hand. Some ran onto the desktop. While the Monsignor frantically moved things out of the way to avoid their getting soiled, Brother Timothy just stared silently at the Monsignor. Leopold had moved what items he could away from the impact area, but now he was very incensed. "How dare you invade this office and show me such affront! I will have you in front of a council—"The words faded away from him as he stared into Brother Timothy's eyes. Into his eyes without the benefit of his hood in place. He saw no joy there, absolutely none. They looked…_malevolent?..._no , beyond malevolent. Leopold remembered an approximate sort of stare from one of his instructors in the past, but only an approximation. What he saw in Brother Timothy's eyes inspired fear, yes fear, but also sadness and something else…._something not so holy and pious perhaps?_. _Does he mean me any harm?_ This monk did not seem so large in stature, but there was a strength about him…..his wildly flailing thoughts were cut short when Brother Timothy spoke.

"Are you done yet?"

The Monsignor could not tear his gaze away from those transpiercing eyes. They looked _through_ him, not at him. He finally did so with an extreme effort. He was somewhat more calmed as well. "Why are you standing there with that speared through your hand? I will find a bandage." The Monsignor made to search for what he said, but once more Brother Timothy spoke.

"That will not be necessary, Monsignor. Look at this wound and I will show you why." As fast as he had transpierced his hand, he withdrew the letter opener with seemingly little effort. "You said in your sermon 'We are born and we age, then we die.' Is that not correct? You are for the most part right." He turned his injured hand so that the Monsignor could see it. A bluish crackle of lightning appeared at both ends of the wound. In moments, before the Monsignor's widely staring eyes, the wound was no more. Brother Timothy wiped his hand on his robe. No trace of the injury remained.

The Monsignor was speechless, yet in his mind, more runaway thoughts began to surface. _That is simply not possible! A wound healing at once!_ His Jesuit training tried to find a rational explanation for what he just witnessed, but none surfaced. There was no rational explanation for that! It was all he could do to find his chair and take a seat , and all he could say was "Mother of God! I can't deny seeing what I have witnessed, but that can simply not be so! That can't be so!"

"I can do it again or as many times as you wish, but it may damage your desk a bit more, Monsignor." Brother Timothy raised the letter opener yet again, but Leopold almost shouted "No! No More! I would not ever wish to see that again, ever!"

"You said in your sermon, 'We are born and we age, then we die.' Some of us do not die, though. I have called myself Brother Timothy for a long time."

"How on earth did you do that! That goes beyond the realm of reason…of plausibility!" The Monsignor paused, "What do you mean by a long time?"

"I and others of my kind do not die, Monsignor. Just as you saw that wound heal, I can recover from mortal wounds upon my person. And before you ask how, suffice it to say I do not know, I only know that I am so, and have been for longer than this monastery has stood. You see, I built the original edifice that once stood here….in 600 A.D. or thereabouts. Do you think this would make for good publicity for this place of worship?" Brother Timothy's accompanying smile was devoid of any humor.

The Monsignor stared at the brother in shock. "Do something like that in public for all to see? We would become a travesty! No one would ever take us seriously again!" Then the Monsignor became silent again, though only momentarily. "Did I hear you say 600 A.D.?"

Timothy nodded. "Yes, it would not be good publicity, would it? At least you are of a strong constitution; that is fortunate. I think we are starting to see eye to eye. Do you now see why the constabulary can't be involved? Imagine the questions they could ask me after seeing this trick." The Monsignor could only mutely nod. His strained credulity was quickly dissipating as well; in its place was the veneer of leadership whose mantle he had accepted some time ago. "Are you going to tell me about the cross? That is a serious matter indeed."

"The Writ of Excommunication was issued against this place of worship in the early 1200's, during the reign of Innocent III. The ones charged with its execution never made it here, though. Since that time, the cross has laid here in this edifice."

"How was it that they did not complete their task?"

"I slaughtered them to prevent the action and took the cross and writ from their leader. There was one attempt to return the cross in exchange for a rescindment of the writ, but it met only with betrayal." Brother Timothy said this in a rather matter-of-fact tone despite the statement's implication.

The Monsignor was not even fully recovered from his initial shock. "You speak of a time 800 years ago as if it was yesterday? Eight hundred years! And we are men of god, of peace! Slaughtering people for any reason is not in our vows!"

"You did ask how the cross came to be in my possession; that is the truth of the matter. There are times where you cannot be a sheep and live."

"Perhaps you should have tried to amend this issue more proactively—"

"And how many more here should die because of those bastards that sit in Rome? Several brothers already did in trying to as you say 'amend' this matter. They were betrayed by an agent of the church masquerading as a brother."

"I may perhaps be able to ameliorate the matter, provided that cross and Writ are in my possession."

"As long as we see eye to eye on specific matters: that is all that counts for the moment. No constabulary is to be notified whatsoever. I will deal with the Brother's slayer."

"As much as I do not like this matter of going outside the law, I will have to concur."

"The information that you now have about me is not for others to hear. There are others like me who would not suffer me to live if they were to know of me and you for knowing what I am." The Monsignor only mutely nodded; better to simply acquiesce than to have to look into those eyes. _Who would believe me anyways?_ "I am aware that this is no longer the Middle Ages, Monsignor, but I cover myself with my hood so as to be as anonymous as possible. Most all in this edifice are learned men; it was not really so in the past. One overly curious Brother could raise a lot of questions I care not to answer."

"What could they possibly learn unless you demonstrate to them what you demonstrated to me?"

"Thanks to another Monsignor that was in charge here some time ago, my portrait is all over this edifice. Michel was an accomplished artist considering he trained himself. Wouldn't you say so?" Brother Timothy gestured at a print of 'Massacre of The Heretics' on the wall of the office.

Leopold looked at the print, then at Brother Timothy, then at the print again. What composure he had regained was now slipping away again; his skin paled as his eyes grew wide. "The original painting of this was in 1025 A.D.! Is that you depicted there? Killing those people?" The Monsignor already knew the answer.

"Yes it is. Michel was an initiate at the time, but unbeknownst to me, he drew what he saw. What he saw before was even worse, but I destroyed that drawing. He saw me extract that spear that killed me; the one in that case behind you."

"Why on earth did you do that to them? We do not go around killing people!"

"Those raider bastards killed six parishioners for no good reason; a few clay beads and a copper crucifix. I did my best to be at peace, but it was not to be. They killed Michel's mother and father. They raped his mother on the altar." The Brother looked sad for a moment. "It was a much different time than now as well, Monsignor."

Now the Monsignor's gaze was penetrating, almost transpiercing. "Exactly how old are you, if I may ask?"

"Older than you could comprehend, Monsignor. Perhaps at some later date we can discuss that matter, but at this time, some preparations need to be made."

With a sigh, he opened up a filing cabinet and withdrew a form. "I will authorize the dispensation as you require."

"There is more to be said before we are done here today. A good bit more." Brother Timothy once again raised his hood, but did not stop speaking. "The other items stolen from me were taken to provoke me and me alone. This means my enemies are active, and as such, I will need the means to protect myself from not only them, but any others of my kind I may meet."

"For god's sake, this dispensation is not for you to kill people! Do you at least understand that!"

"It is you that does not understand. Those like me also at times run across each other, and many times, only one walks away. Most of our kind is bound by some basic rules. No combat on holy ground, such as a church; no battle within a sight of a mortal, and no interference. You see, if one of my kind cuts off my head, I am as dead as Brother Ignatius. If I leave the protection of this place, I am subject to those rules and their enforcement. You look askance at the times that I was not peaceful, but there has been a truce between my enemies and me of a sort for 800 years, and I have lived in relative peace here for 1400 years. Can you say the same for humans? They are the ones who provoked me; I did not provoke them. They have provoked me for the last time. This time I will end it for good."

"You said most follow these rules. What about the others? And who are these enemies of yours that would pose such a threat so you would have to kill?"

_This one is no slouch, even when confronted by a serious anomaly._ "There are those who are disdainful of the basic rules I described. They will pose the biggest threat to my safety once they know I am around. Who they are and what they represent are way out of the scope of any but I and a possible few others at least as far as dealing with them. If they can, they will carry their war to this place of worship. That is another reason for me to leave as fast as possible."

"Well, you should know that this Monastery carries no means of murdering humans. All are sacred under the eyes of God!"

"And if the ones concerned do not believe in God, or any current deity still being worshipped? Or if they are guilty of a defiling act against God? And this Monastery does carry something here which is suitable for defense of me. You can see it in the painting you have. It is in that case against the back wall behind your desk."

The Monsignor did not even turn to look. "Those are the symbolic artifacts of The Monastery of Saint Timothy's! As much as I may think of it as superstition, those are revered and holy artifacts! They were never meant to be wielded as weapons of slaughter! This is preposterous! I can not countenance—"Leopold halted his speech and cringed back against his chair. Brother Timothy was standing OVER HIM! Even with the hood raised, he could see the set of his jaw, and it was grim. A crackle of bluish lightning trickled down the Brother's right arm and coalesced around his right hand before dissipating. "Those items were NEVER holy, Monsignor. That was the result of some idiotic mortal superstitious crap. They are actual weapons, and they were used by me more than once to defend this edifice and me from transgressors! The sword and the greave are MINE! They have been since the day I forged them; a day long ago, WAY before this church even came to be; WAY before Christ was alive! If you doubt my word, take a good look at that print on your wall. This isn't a matter of discussion. I am doing my best to convince you, but this a deadly serious business. Those items comprise my defense against my own kind. I will need the sword and the greave. I have had a hard enough time convincing you of my needs; please DO NOT make it any harder!" Brother Timothy backed away, but his look was still sepulchral. "Is the case locked? I need to inspect the items to make sure they will still serve their function."

The Monsignor was truly scared by this point. He was supposed to be in charge here, but this Brother did not behave as a Brother usually did. _Would even God forgive that sort of wrath? _He didn't know; Brother Timothy had given him a lot of information to ponder. The truth of the matter was that he had studied the artifacts as best he could. He had even brought in a metallurgist in to study the items. They were baffled as well. A hardened drill bit broke against the blade with out marring the blades surface. No normal means were effective in even getting a small sample of it. A laser was enough, finally, to get a sample for analysis. Carbon and iron was only a fractional portion of its makeup. The list of compounds was impressive in that it took nearly a whole page to list. The sword weighed nearly 30 pounds; it was as heavy as a Claymore or other two-handed sword, but nowhere near as bulky. Even a sword expert shrugged his shoulders after inspecting the item. 'This bledd ye have there, 'tis a screamin' impossibility. There is very little carbon or steel in it; even these days, 'twould be near impossible to make such as this. Those runes carved into it, I dannae know how 'twas done, but this is exceptional work. I would hate to be on the receivin' end of it, though. It probably would even reduce steel to ruin; that is if any could wield it. This armor piece, I have never seen th' like of it before either. It is mostly base iron, but these strips here are of the same metal as the sword. These are as ye say ceremonial, but their only purpose would be for doin' someone serious harm, regardless of their stated purpose. I do have a bit of good advice fer ye though. I am going to forget I saw these, and best ye don't let any other see either of these again. There are all sorts of people out there, including those who would love to have this in their collection, an' there's no need of tempting fate. Also, if you ever find the one who made these, I will hire them on the spot. Good day to ye, sir.' It was then the Monsignor found the discrepancy between Brother Timothy's attire and demeanor. _He spoke as one not penitent, but as one to be obeyed! He could have simply taken those items, but he was willing to state his case first…..a King? Ridiculous! There were no longer any Kings with any power….but still….this could be interesting. The sword they say was impractical to wield…. _Wordlessly, The Monsignor got up from his chair, took a plain set of keys off of a hook, and opened the case. He then stepped back. _Yes, this could be interesting…._

Once The Monsignor opened the case, Brother Timothy lost no time. He pulled out the scabbard and checked it as well as the straps used to hold it in place on his body. They were in good shape. The grip wrapping would need to be replaced. He drew the blade. It was like an old friend he had missed for a long time. He raised it up in his right hand and made a few tentative sweeps with it. , then tried with both hands. It whistled through the air singing its song of doom. There would be time to refresh his skill later, though. After sheathing the sword, he doffed his robe and quickly slid the sword straps in place. The weight felt comfortable on his back. Then he removed the greave. All seemed well until he attempted to mount it on his left arm. A portion flaked away to a cloud of rust particles upon being moved, leaving only perhaps half of the original iron plus the stripes of star metal. The clasps had rusted into place and the elbow and wrist joints were frozen into place. He let out a string of curses in Celtic as his mind roiled. _Why did I know something like this would happen? The greave is useless! Wait! Did he not carry the rest of the metal to his quarters? It could be reforged…not only that, but was it possible that he could forge it the way he originally wanted it to be? _ He calmed down enough to laugh at the mess he had made on the carpet. It must have been some exposure to water at some time. He had not used the greave recently or the sword; he had other means of exercise such as a quarterstaff. This time it would not be practice though. _You may have to wield these in anger or for protection of yourself. It is best that you prepare well…._

"It appears that the greave is ruined, Monsignor. The sword is in adequate shape, though, as well as the scabbard." He looked at the again wide-eyed Monsignor.

_That sword is impractical to wield? He wielded that as if it were a twig! _"Does that mean you will have to leave the greave here? We can not afford to let it get destroyed or lost."

"I can not afford that either. It will have to be reforged. "

"We have no means to affect that here, and I am not sure if anyone else nearby does either. And to find someone that does that sort of forge work? That would be a monumental task."

"I only need a forge. I am capable of doing the work myself. I was a blacksmith at one time. I at least prepared for the worst; I know of a place near here that has a forge that I can hopefully use."

"I was told by a professional sword expert and a metallurgist that that item could have in no way been used as an actual weapon. It was way too heavy for its size. They also said that its actual composition would have defied any attempts to work the metal? "

"For most men, that would be true. I made it for myself; suitable for me to wield. It was forged from something that fell out of the sky….a comet?

"Meteorite", Leopold corrected, "You crafted that from a meteorite? How in heaven's name-"

"That would take some time to explain, Monsignor. I promise you at some point, I will do my best in that regard, but there is one last major item that needs to be addressed. There needs to be a guard posted at the front and rear entrances to this place of worship. As it goes, the die has been cast. You will need to remember that I did not cast it, they did. I do not think any more murdering thieves will enter here, but enemies of mine may still try."

"How are we to stop such as them? No one here seems to possess your malevolence and proclivity towards violence. The Brothers here are not like you!"

"There are some who spar with the staves. They will have to suffice. The front gate and postern guards need to be reconstituted immediately. I am inclined to believe that just their presence will deter any others who try to enter."

"And if not? I wish to preside over no more funerals here!"

"Then hope that they will strike to protect this edifice and their selves rather than not do so in obeisance to God. As I said, you can not always survive as a sheep." Brother Timothy gave a mirthless chuckle.

"And how do you propose to put them to this task without any questions as to why? Or have you thought of that as well?"

"You still have the authority of your office. They will follow your missive to that effect. After all, there was an intruder in here already. It makes logical sense to post a guard."

The Monsignor shook his head. "It seems that you have all of the answers, don't you? What real use am I to you then other than to spread carnage with what you now carry?"

Brother Timothy shook his head, "My ultimate desire is not carnage, but to only be left in peace. Maybe someday you will understand that, but for now, I am satisfied with your acquiescence. I will be leaving in the morning; that will give me time, with your missive, to set up the guards. I also admit, it has been awhile since I traveled outside of this place. Are these sufficient for funds to pay ones way?" Timothy extracted a handful of coins and set them on the Monsignors desk. "I used some to purchase something before, but the receivers of these got all excited; though a transaction was concluded, it was more a trade than a purchase, it seemed."

The Monsignor chuckled. "What is funny? I see no amusement in this. Those are genuine coin!" Brother Timothy's tone grew menacing again.

"Oh no, I was not laughing at you! I can see how these would cause excitement, though. Gold coins have not been in active use since the 1930's. Uhm…how long has it been since you traveled outside this edifice"

Brother Timothy shrugged. "Cromwell was in power I believe"

The Monsignor sighed, and then he smiled. "Then it looks like I may be of some use after all. There have been some changes….I suppose we can discuss those while what documents are needed are prepared." He picked up his telephone, but only to notify his assistant that he was not to be disturbed until further notice.


	9. Chapter 8

When Brother Timothy emerged from the Monsignor's office, he had some new found respect for the Monsignor. He may have known what needed to be done, but the Monsignor had the means to explain how things were done in the modern world. He had something called an 'expense account'; this piece of plastic was as good as coin, but nowhere near as bulky. He also now had a 'cell phone.' It was like a regular phone that plugged into a wall, but a lot smaller. The means of travel had changed as well. In the morning, a 'taxi' would come to take him to an address he had copied down. He had other plans, though. He had not been fully honest with the Monsignor earlier. He _had_ initiated some contact with the world out there, but it had been some months ago. There was no need to upset that one any further; as it went, he was being given a dispensation to cause possible ruin. Some time ago, he had inspected his robe with the iron filaments woven in it. It had stopped a few lead balls, but from what he had read, they had vastly improved on that sort of technology. _Mortals! Would they ever learn!_ There has to be some way to improve on this then, he thought. One Sunday after mass, he struck up a conversation with a parishioner who was in the constabulary. Why is it that you wear a vest over your uniform? That is to stop a bullet coming my way, monk. The criminals of today have no qualms about shooting someone; not even the law stops them anymore. I don't think a man of the cloth as you has much to worry about, though. I don't think that's a sin God would forgive! The parishioner laughed at the humor. What is it made out of? He watched one of the brothers at their computer. They showed him how to use something called the _internet_ and in a relatively short time, he had found a manufacturer of sorts that dealt in this _Kevlar_. His first attempts at contact were ignored, but finally his barrage of e-mails got a response. He described what he wanted and if it could be fabricated; that met with some exclamations of disbelief and suspicion. He got an impression that these fabricators were not fully of the above-ground sort, but they finally quoted him a cost. How much is that in gold? He sent back. More derision, until they realized he was serious. They sent him to another person, a _money dealer?_ What sort of gold did he have? He did his best to keep his inquiries as secret as possible; he connected his computer in his sanctum to this Internet. He took 3 of his gold coins he had and sent them to this person. The reply he got was 2 pages in length. He shrugged. So what if they were Roman coins? The Romans were fools as well, but their money was good. He wound up sending 2 more of his gold coins for a total of five; the fabricator notified him that his order was paid by sending a receipt he had to print. Then item would be held until he showed up with this receipt. They thought it odd, but he did not. That was the main reason he had asked the Monsignor about money. He was not sure how well he could suffer these fools en masse outside these walls. He became aware of his surroundings as he approached the clacking sounds of sparring. This was where he needed to be. In his robe, he had the missive. _Let's get this over with; I have a lot to do starting tomorrow._ Once more, he entered the area, but as quietly as possible, so he could watch the practice. It did not take long before he made a decision.

"Good afternoon, Brother George, how fares things?" Once again, all practice ceased as all present looked at Brother Timothy.

"All as it was as before, Brother, including the fact that none here wish to spar –"

"I am not here to spar, Brother. This is a more serious matter. Who are the best six here using the staves?" He handed Brother George the missive.

Brother George guffawed. "Why on earth does the Monsignor want guards? The action is pointless, given this modern day and age!"

"It is pointless? Someone already broke into this place and killed a fellow Monk. This is necessary so that it does not happen again. As I said before, who are the best six here. Or better yet, the best four besides Brother Andrew and Brother Gerald?"

"I do not see any command written here; as far as I am concerned, there would have to be volunteers." He grinned in a most officious manner.

_Yes, as pompous as Gregorius was for sure."_ Very well, then_._" He looked at the monks in the room. "Who here would wish to volunteer as a front gate or postern guard?" The monks shuffled their feet for a moment, and then one of them spoke up. "I will volunteer, Brother Timothy." It was Brother Andrew. Brother Gerald followed suit. In short order, he had the six needed.

"I will need to speak to them alone, Brother George. That is also stated in the missive." He smiled back at Brother George, but it was rather a frosty grimace than a smile. It had the desired effect. Soon, only Timothy and the other six monks remained.

"I do admit, it seems that the guard duty may be more onerous than purposeful, but I am still willing to volunteer." Brother Donald, a recently promoted initiate. "As if we can actually guard anything with these though!" He laughed as he bent his practice stave nearly double.

"Practice staves are for practice only. You will be wielding these instead. He had 2 other monks help him to move the rack where the staves were held. His hood caught on some splinter and pulled it down, but Timothy paid it no mind, other than to shrug to adjust his robe and pull the hood back over his head. Brother Timothy removed a panel in the wall to expose another rack. He extracted six of the staves stored there and tossed one to each monk, then replaced the panel. If the monks were silent before, they were no longer.

"Brother Timothy, how did you know those were located there? Also, this is _not_ a practice stave. One could injure or kill with this!" Brother Andrew was probably one of the most uptight of the Monks as far as he was concerned. Andrew rarely smiled, and was the hardest on the initiates, but he was studious and severely pragmatic. The other brothers would at times play pranks upon him, but Brother Timothy put a stop to that without Brother Andrew knowing. In his hands he held a six foot piece of hardwood perhaps 3 inches in diameter whose ends were bound in iron.

"That is a battle staff. As Brother Donald said, the duty might be more onerous than actually needed, but if needed, these can defend. As such, there really has been no need up until now for their use. Now, if you can give me a hand with this, please?" The rack with practice staves was moved back to its original location. "There is no need for any others to know of these. As Brother George decided to interpret, these positions are voluntary. There is no requirement to stand guard." He looked around. None of the monks said anything. "There are a few more things. Four at the front gate, two at the postern gate. From sundown to sunrise, you will stand your post. This edifice has some enemies that may be about. Any that try to force an entry into here are to be stopped. Is that clear?" The monks nodded. "I will not lie to you either; there is some possible danger involved in this task. It is better to strike to defend this place where you reside, rather than not strike in the name of God." He had not realized hat his expression had grown grim, but the monks' unease told him volumes. "Are there any questions?" He received no responses from any present. "If not, one more thing. You and Brother Gerald seem the best with the staves, Brother Andrew. Could you make it so that one of you is at the postern gate and the other is at the front? You will start tonight." Without further fanfare, Brother Timothy spun around and left the area with no further words.

The monk's were excitedly conversing with each other and some were inspecting their staves, but one of them was lost in thought. He did not know if the other monks had observed it, but Brother Andrew could swear that he saw the hilt of the artifact sword on _Brother Timothy! _It had only been a momentary glimpse, but he was sure if it. Brother Andrew was also Jesuit trained, but what no one else there knew was that he was sent here to this monastery because as Rome put it, he was 'too overzealous in his hunt for apostasy.' Well, that Muslim heretic was the one who decided to bring the explosives into Rome; as far as he was concerned, he was only fulfilling his duty. As a Defensor Fidei, it was his job to thoroughly research and learn about any transgression perceived against the church, and, if necessary, take action against it. That sword was symbolic! But if that was the case, why exactly would a Brother be carrying it as a _weapon!_ Brother Andrew not only researched matters that could pose a threat to the church, but most any matter church related. Any item declared to be holy this or symbolic that came under a Defensor's purview. Thanks to an errant splinter, he now had a definitive picture burned into his mind of Brother Timothy's visage. He had wondered for a long time why this one Brother chose to be hooded most all the time; did he have something to hide, or maybe something else? He had some time before his duty, so upon excusing himself for the others' company, he headed back to his sleeping quarters. In addition to his bed, though, there was a desk with a computer and a small filing cabinet. The others in the Monastery would not have liked its contents. There were hard copy files on all of his fellows, even the Monsignor; some were even of Brothers long passed on. Andrew turned on his computer and went to a facial recognition program. In about an hour, he had a near perfect picture of Brother Timothy. He saved his work, and then he uploaded it into a little known search archive in the Vatican. It was a central repository of research from people involved in his former profession. As an afterthought, he used Brother Timothy's picture as a search reference in the database. He figured it would take some time to complete, so he minimized the window to read what e-mail he had. He was so absorbed in reading a trade letter of his former colleagues that the dinging sound of a search completion startled him. No direct matches; that he had expected, but two flags were thrown. _One was regarding 'The Massacre of the Heretics'!_ The other was some painting from some late 12th century artist. _What would a brother here have to do with a near 1000 year old painting?_ The information from the flag sent him into a flurry of activity. Soon, a high resolution image of the Monastery's painting was up on his screen. He surrounded the face of the monk in the painting and enlarged it, then put Brother Timothy's visage next to it. No, not quite right. He adjusted the angle of his portrait of his fellow brother, than sat back with a perplexed look on his face. _They were nearly identical!_ He let out a snicker. _All that it is comprises a possible coincidence, no more._ The other flag concerned an unknown painting from France. It looked like some generic religious scene, but wait. The visages in the painting were grim and there appeared to be a monk in it as well, but it seemed that the monk was being burned at the stake. The quality of this painting was not as good as what resided at his monastery, but he was able to blow up the monk's visage. No, nowhere near the quality, but _Brother Timothy's face was a close match to that of the monk being burned at the stake!_ _And however crude the drawing, wasn't that the sword of The Monastery? _No snicker escaped him this time. It had been replaced with a look of perplexity. If there was one thing Brother Andrew detested, it was being made to look a fool. What he had discovered had all the potential to be exactly such, _if he reported it! _If he did not do so right away, then he could look into the matter further; if he could twist this in his favor and get back in the good graces of Rome…the possibilities could be endless. He printed off hard copies of his work so that they could be filed. He leafed through his folders and pulled out the one for Brother Timothy. It seemed that he did not have too much information on this brother. No document of admittance into this place of worship existed in his file. There was something amiss here; even Brother Ignatius had one of those, and that was back in 1922! Once more he went through the information he had on this specific brother. When he compared it to the other files, he had essentially nothing at all on this one! Nothing! That will be remedied in good time, Brother Andrew thought, as he placed his new information into the folder. It was getting close to sunset and his promised duty. He would pursue this matter further, though, even if it meant talking to Brother Timothy himself! It would not be fitting to not do so; after all, was he not still a defender of the faith?

The morning dawned chill and windy with a misty drizzle in the air, but Brother Timothy paid it no mind. He had been awake for some time before making sure he had what he needed. What remained of the greave was in a cloth satchel. In a smaller one were a few changes of underclothes, an electric razor and other toiletries, and a pair of sandals. Instead of sandals on his feet, he was wearing a pair of battered but serviceable walking boots. In a lead-lined case were the remnants of the sky metal that he had kept all these years. The sword and its scabbard rested firmly on his back and were covered by his robes. Despite the grim cast of his countenance, inside he was almost cheerful. _I leave this place today to not only find a murderer, but to possibly settle another matter once and for all._ The lead lined case was heavy, but the weight to him was of no consequence as he headed towards the front entrance. This _taxi_ should be waiting for him outside. The plastic card he was given was in a pocket of his robe as well as the crossbow and a dozen quarrels. As he approached the front door, he saw the 4 monks standing there and conversing amongst themselves. He heard a noise outside the monastery as he spoke in greeting.

"How went the watch last night, brothers?"

"Not one thing out of sorts, Brother Timothy. To where be you headed this morning." Brother Bertrand was a civil sort, if not rather banal at times.

"The Monsignor has given me leave to travel so as some errands can be taken care of in short order. Nothing of consequence, but he has charged me with the tasks at hand." As Brother Timothy reached for the door to open it, another Brother blocked his way. It was Brother Andrew.

"I find it interesting that you were tasked with these errands, brother. The Monsignor himself usually is the only one to run such errands. Perhaps you might have upon you your writ of travel?" Andrew's tone of voice was at the same time cordial and pragmatic as well as cold and calculating. Brother Timothy shrugged and produced the required document for Brother Andrew's inspection. "This is odd, indeed, brother, especially since he did not consult with those senior in rank to you in this matter. Are you also aware that authorizations to travel must be given in advance? And that they must be presented through the line of seniority here? Why is it that I never saw this request?"

"It was a matter that required immediate attention; and before you ask what, that is between the Monsignor and I. Out there is some sort of conveyance to take me where I need to go, and why are you blocking my path of egress?" Brother Timothy's voice had lost any cordiality that may have been inherent before.

Brother Andrew reached for the satchel that held the greave, but Brother Timothy as easily tipped it away. "This whole matter seems out of sorts, Brother. Your secretive ways and your odd demeanors speak volumes to those who wish to see it. Go then, but be advised that this matter is NOT settled, no, not settled at all." As Brother Timothy left the Monastery, he would not have been happy at the look Brother Andrew gave him. Even as the door closed, Brother Andrew's Jesuit trained mind was busy calculating available information and fitting together pieces of what he perceived to be an anomaly.


	10. Chapter 9

The taxi was waiting outside the gates at close to the hour. The cab driver greeted the monk and assisted him in putting his belongings in the boot of the car, but Brother Timothy placed the case with the sky-metal there himself. He got into the back seat of the cab and was initially taken aback with the plethora of odors that hit his nostrils. The cabby fortunately spoke at this time so as to relief the monk's discomfiture.

"Good mornin' to ye, sir! I have been instructed by your boss where to take yer personage. It will be a bit of a drive—"

"I am aware he has done so, but we need to stop somewhere else first. The Monastery will compensate you for the added inconvenience." Brother Timothy handed him a sheet of paper. The cabbie blanched. "Ye may want to know that this is not a very pleasant area to be; they may not even respect the robes yer wearing!" "That is the first place I need to go to, sir; I will be okay." "As ye will, sir….this will be a bit out of the way, though" "I have no problems in trusting your competence." As the taxi pulled away, taking the Monastery out of sight, Brother Timothy relaxed. Part of him deep inside was crowing at the thought of freedom, albeit only temporary. Yes…freedom, as with everything a double-edged sword…..

**Pre-History**

_…he had only a vague recollection of the times that followed. As hard as he tried to keep what civilized ways he had learned when he was a member of his group, they who had betrayed him, one by one they faded away. Soon the days consisted of only food for his belly and sleep when he was tired. Raw meat was harder to chew but he could eat his fill faster than if he cooked it. Periods of freezing cold at times alternated with scorching heat. Well crafted spears gave way to rocks and sticks. He feared nothing that he came across; he was not much better than an animal. Then another such as he attacked him for no reason. There was no food over which to fight; or a female present. It was only by luck that he killed the other by pounding them with a rock. Then the agony and a feeling of…..something…something beyond what he was. Bluish light was everywhere; at the end he was disoriented but he recovered in due course. His nostrils smelled food; a fresh kill! The wolves that were there fell back snarling from a hail of rocks; all but one, and the biggest to boot. He and the wolf rolled around, screams and growls interspersing with ragged breaths. He beat the wolf down with a stick and made it whimper before him. As one then, he and the wolves tore at their kill…..he was one of them! He howled as loudly as they in the starless nights with the moon as his only spectator…_

…_something was amiss, he thought; something was wrong. He scrabbled out of his bed of leaves and wrapped the filthy hide around him. He had gotten the idea from others of his kind somewhere, by watching them. He had at times approached them in curiosity, but invariably he was driven away. Then there were other times when some attacked him. He knew when to expect that now, there was always a certain feeling. He had a well-sharpened piece of bone he used as a weapon, because unless you stopped them from making noise, they would come after you again. The noise part was at the top of them. Cut that off, and they never bothered you again. There would always be that feeling though afterwards; the bluish lights and the disorientation. Now he listened, animal instinct making him hyper-aware of his surroundings. Some sort of sound, raising in volume, and then lowering. He homed in on the sounds, weapon at the ready. These were strange beings! They had sometimes six legs and two noise parts; other times two legs and one noise part. They did not look like there would be much meat on them either way, and he was not going to approach them. When he had approached others, they usually ran away or threw rocks or even sharp, pointed sticks that really hurt…._

_ …he now had a sharp pointed stick that one of the light hairs threw at him. Its owner would not need it anymore. The ones that looked like him with fairer features he called light hairs; the odd ones that at times had six legs he called shaee That is what he heard them calling themselves at one time. Though he looked more like the light-hairs, the shaee were much more interesting. The shaee looked more like him when he realized that they were separate from the creatures they called an each. A shaee on an each could move faster than he could. The shaee were more nimble than he was; one had attacked him one night. They were lacking in his body strength, though. That time a lot of blue lightning happened afterwards. The light-hairs did not have each that he could see, but seemed more numerous at times. When light-hairs and shaee met though, all was not always peaceful. His curiosity one day led to his capture. A meeting between shaee and light-hairs turned ugly and life blood spilled. He heard a wailing in the carnage and found a little shaee; it was small but it still was a shaee, with over-large bright blue eyes. He picked it up and carried it away from there. It made lots of noise but his curiosity quelled any annoyance with it. After a lot of trial and error, the little shaee ate something he offered it and fell asleep. What was he to do though? The noisy one made stalking prey impossible. He would find some shaee and give this to them. Then he would not be so hungry…_

_ …he had found some shaee! He heard their horns and homed in on the sounds. There they were! Several were on an each and others on foot. He approached them openly with the shaee proffered before him as an offering. Their reaction was electric and violent. Several sharpened sticks flew at him; one pierced his leg. Several of them on each thundered towards him with weapons like his piece of bone upraised. Up close, they looked different from him he saw; larger, more luminous eyes spaced further apart and faster of foot. He dropped the shaee to the ground which caused it to squall. With a scream of animal rage he ripped the stick from his leg and cast it at his attackers. His other one followed. The second cast was a beautiful throw; it got a shaee in the leg as well. One of the each struck him a glancing blow and knocked him down. As he fell, he struck his head on a rock. As his consciousness faded, he felt strong but slender hands grab him as his movement was being restrained…._

_ ….he awoke to a cacophony of noise. At least it seemed that way to him. Jeers and a strange sort of sound from…shaee? that were around him. Various things were hitting him in the head and body. He made a movement to ward them away but he could not move his arms or his legs. They were restrained by something? Pulling harder made no difference. The bindings led to something stuck into the ground a short distance away but he was unable to get there either. An inhuman screech escaped him as he tugged with all his prodigious strength. The screech frightened away his tormentors, but he could not escape. He was surrounded by shaee who were making all sorts of noises amongst themselves. At times they pointed to him as well. At last tiring of his fruitless exertions, he relaxed only slightly. A murderous rage arose in him as he plotted revenge against his tormentors…_

_ ….he soon got used to the noise around him. It was the smaller shaee that were throwing things at him; now he was surrounded by larger shaee. He stifled a growl from his throat as several got closer. One had his bone weapon. They were going to stop him from making Noise! He lunged with his head and sunk his teeth into one of the shaee. Something hit him in the head with extreme force and he faded away…._

_ …he awoke and he was cold…..he was still alive, though his head hurt. His head fur was…missing! Where did it go? Next to him was a bowl with some water in it. He looked down at himself…all what was supposed to be there was still there it seemed, but he felt different. He smelled different? Then he stared into the water. What was this pink skinned thing that seemed to be him? Was this him? His head fur was all but gone as was his face fur….he stared at the sky and keened as the wolves used to do some time ago…..and he stared out into the forest and plains…._

"Sir, we are at the address you requested. I will wait for ye here, but watch yourself!" Brother Timothy stirred from his thoughts and immediately was alert. He was not familiar with this area at least not from any maps he had perused. All the area seemed to consist of were rows of blocky, unadorned buildings with hardly any other features than a street number; it was easily recognizable as an industrial area. He exited the taxi and entered the appropriate building. He had his hood down so he could enjoy the breeze there was. The rather decrepit interior hosted a threadbare carpet with sparse furnishings and two rather grim faced men. _I did not think this place would be above board,_ he thought. The first of the people noticed him.

"What have we here? A man of the cloth it looks to be? Well, ye idiot wanker, does this look like a church?" He sniggered at his comments. "I would advise ye to get the hell out while you can!" The other person was only slightly more civil. "Wot in 'ell do ye want here whatever ye are…this ain't no place of worship!"

"No it is not, but this is where a Mr. Halstroud conducts business. If so, I am here to pick up an item he manufactured for me." Brother Timothy proffered his receipt. The guard looked at the receipt then at Brother Timothy. "You wait right there and don't move! We'll see what this is about!" He spun around and entered another door with Brother Timothy's receipt. Shortly afterwards, he emerged with another man in tow; this one was holding a package wrapped in brown paper.

Loren Halstroud had been successful in this line of business for one basic reason: As long as he was paid for what he procured or produced, he was of a silent tongue. When he left work for the day, it never went home with him. Similarly, his home life never followed him to work. It just wouldn't do. Many of his customers would have refused to do business with him if it were otherwise. This item he was told to produce, it did not make any sense. He almost broke his vow not ever to ask, but wisely held his tongue. A Kevlar vest or even full body armor was one thing. The item he handed over to this hooded monk or brother was a brown wool robe _with Kevlar fibers woven into it!_ It just did not make sense!. One look into Brother Timothy's eyes was effective at killing all curiosity; in only a quick view, he saw many things which were not pleasant to see in a human. Some of what he saw was typical, but other things he saw were best not addressed. It still did not make any sense, though!

It did to Brother Timothy, though. He could not wait to try it on, but it was promising. It felt no heavier than a regular robe, but it would do the service of iron filaments with much less weight. He was all too familiar with the ways of mortals by now. Any way they could increase the carnage, they would. Maybe his foes were not aware of modern weaponry, but he could ill afford to take the chance.

**Kings Langley, UK**

Once he was back in the cab, the driver took him to his original destination. It was closer to noon when he arrived there. The area was timeworn, but neat enough in appearances to pass muster. He headed towards a building that had a name on the door in black lettering:

**Robertson's Metal Works Ltd.**

When he reached for the door to open it, it was locked. Brother Timothy was mystified. It had only been a few weeks ago that he had checked to see that this place was open. Attached to the window by the door was a notice written in black on white paper:

**This establishment closed until further notice pending **

**the legal business of the Established owner. Any inquiries should be directed to the local constabulary.**

Brother Timothy pondered the missive. This was not good; it wasn't like there was a forge everywhere you looked, let alone any others in a small settlement like this. He was here at this location versus a bigger town for the purpose of being as inconspicuous as possible; he did not want to draw any more attention to himself than was necessary, at least at this point. As he turned to scan the area, a police car pulled up and two policemen emerged.

"Look at what we got, Harry! Another one of those bloody freaks! You there! Get over here! What in hell are ye doin' around that establishment? Can't you read the bloody sign!"

Brother Timothy shrugged. "I was here because I was told they had a forge and I needed something repaired. Why is this establishment closed?"

The other policeman spoke in a less harsh tone." It seems that the proprietor was caught with an underage girl dead to rights in a very bad state. We have been watching this place to see if he has a cohort; that is, any friends of his of the same state of mind."

"Do you happen to know of any other place that would have a forge—"

"What in 'ell is it with you freaks running around like yer from some other era? What are you supposed to be? Some sort of Priest?" The rude policeman guffawed, but in his eyes was little humor.

"I am a monk from the Monastery of Saint Timothy if that is what you wish to know, sir. What exactly is a freak by the way?"

The rude policeman stalked up to Brother Timothy. "I would recommend you get yer freak ass out of here, governor, or we may run it in for being in collusion to this perverts crime. And you may want to join the 21st century while you are at it!" As the Cop backed away in preparation to leave, once more he turned around. "And if yer needing to know, freaks like you congregate down the bloody road. Now get out of here." The policeman got into his car mumbling things about freaks and their stupid game. The other policeman just gave a wan smile as he also re-entered the vehicle. As it drove off, Brother Timothy pondered the policeman's words. _Others of my kind? What does that mean? A meeting of monks or priests? _He was walking in the general direction where the policeman had pointed him, so it took him a moment to become aware of the increased noise level. As he rounded the bend, he saw groups of people clustered around conveyances like the taxi that had gotten him here and he was perplexed. _These people look like they stepped out of the history books! _One short but squat man carried a battle-Ax on his back while a woman near him was dressed like a …_druid?_ He saw archers and warriors, some that looked like ancient gentry and others who had what appeared to be musical instruments. _This is what he meant, others of my kind!_ Brother Timothy laughed at the thought, but he was amused enough at these people and their odd dress to investigate further. He was finally noticed as he entered the area where they were. The conversations initially died down as they noticed him, but the continued almost immediately afterwards.

Brother Timothy had no idea what he was hearing; interspersed with 'die rolls' and 'hit dice' was mention of things like Mithril armor and dragon mail. He finally got the attention of one of the oddly dressed people.

"What exactly is this place? Why are you all dressed like this?"

"And so are you dressed like us as well, sir! A cleric, I suppose? You will be much desired in the games they will play today…what's that yer carrying on yer back? You know you lose points for carrying an edged weapon. A man of the cloth can not use such without taking a penalty!"

Brother Timothy quickly hid the sword hilt in his robes. Points? Penalty? Why would I have a Mace or cudgel? They are largely impractical if someone else has a sword or if you are attacked in numbers. What exactly are hit dice?"

The person with whom he had been conversing was dressed like a…_minstrel? _"Are you a novice to the Anachronists guild then? You will have to register before you can participate in any matches. Go to that place there, he will take care of it for you! Have a nice day!" The Minstrel joined up with an equally colorful group and headed back across the street to what appeared to be an empty lot. Brother Timothy was almost totally confused now. _What does he mean by an Anachronists guild? Register for what?_ His confusion left in a big hurry when he saw the sign over the door:

**Tarborleah's Chaos Forge**

_**..The finest in all things Anachronist….**_

_Did they have a forge here! What a stroke of luck!_ Any lingering confusion in his mind now fully dissipated, Brother Timothy went to the door and opened it. His nostrils caught the scent of wood and metal and he felt the heat on his skin and all around him. This place had a forge…..he was almost certain! How to convince them to let him use it was another matter entirely, though. He looked around and saw he was in a rather large foyer styled area with chairs around the walls and even more colorful people astride them. The red haired girl looked like…_an elf?_ He laughed out loud. Humans would never look like the Daoine Na Sidhe no matter how hard they tried; they were too heavy in weight and too short in height. She could have played the part though in a hitch. A young man was testing a bow of some sort and he had a quiver of arrows. A rather regal looking older female was in some sort of silken dress and a lot of jewelry. He went to a counter where a heavy set man was animatedly discussing a topic with an archer and yet another Minstrel or Bard. There was a table at one end of the shop as well with others sitting there.


	11. Chapter 10

"You can not defeat a rock troll with a base weapon! You would have to either have a Slay Troll ego weapon or a wand of Stone to Mud! That was why you lost the last time." He was talking to the archer.

"My long bow is enchanted, though, and my longsword is blessed; the game master gave the troll protection way out of his level; that was not fair!"

The heavy set man sighed. "Okay, Magley. I will have a look into it. If such is the case I will make good on the wager and the treasure." He turned to Brother Timothy. "Welcome to my humble shop! And how may I assist you this fine day, sir?"

Brother Timothy replied. "I was told that I had to do something like 'register' here, but I could not help noticing your sign. Do you have a forge on the premises? The one I was going to do business with, Robertson's, is closed. Two policemen ran me off from there."

"Yeah, they do not like us that much; they make fun of our clothes and all. A shame that Robertson, being caught with that gal and her not bein' of age! Such as it goes though; ye never can tell people!" He produced a piece of paper. "I will need yer name and such here along with the class of character you play and level. Are you a cleric by chance? Several groups here have been seeking one."

"I am a monk from the Monastery of Saint Timothy, but I can scribe if the need arises." The form was easy enough to fill out, but Brother Timothy stopped at the 'level' question. "What exactly does level mean? And come to think of it, what are hit dice and such?" The door had opened again and a large man walked in. The noise he made was partially to do with the plate armor he wore, along with a decent looking sword and shield. "Hello Faustus! How goes it today? Thank the smith for me as well; he did a bang-up job on the breastplate and shield!" The knight made as if to sit down but the heavy-set man hissed at him. "You will destroy my chair if you sit on it with that garb! You can wait a few moments, Percy, and then I will be right with you." He turned back to Brother Timothy "Your level is how adept you are at your class. In your case, it would be how much evil you have destroyed, what prayers you know and such. If you take damage in a melee, the hit dice determine how much; the same applies to how much damage you do when you hit someone else." "What sort of weapons do you carry?" Brother Timothy shrugged. "I carry a sword on my back which needs to be sharpened, and a special piece of armor that needs to be recast." At that admission, Faustus gave a start. "Since you are not a paladin like Percy there,

the edged weapon will cost you in damage and in hits. Monks and clerics and such more often depend on prayers and blunt weapons. What sort of prayer books do you have?" "I do not carry any with me; the Bible is what I am used to carrying if need be. How do they assist in slaughtering enemies?" Faustus harrumphed. "Well, we can get you on the roster, but it would be at level one as a novice. I still think that many here would welcome you even at that level. Most of the basic stuff is in this book." He tossed a small tome on the counter. "The game master has the final say on what occurs and when. Have fun…and there are a few rules, too. We do not like it when people play rough, so no grievous injuries and no head blows. It is hard explaining to people; let alone what it takes to repair armor." Faustus turned to Percy. "The repairs are okay to the armor and shield?" "Yes they are; that dwarf hit me pretty hard, but it was a fair melee." Brother Timothy was not paying attention at that moment, due to the fact that he was perusing the book the man had given him. _What the hell is this?_ From what he could ascertain, these people played some sort of dress-up game where they impersonated people and such from a far earlier time. Anachronists! This whole place was filled with people playing a silly game. You started with a character with various attributes and using some arcane (inane?) method involving dice or such, you either were killed or killed something. Depending on the 'class' of Anachronist you were, you would gain proficiency in this 'class' the more times you killed something. A 'monk' was penalized for using a sword because they were supposed to be skilled at unarmed combat and prayed to their 'god' for things to be killed. Though he was silent on the outside, on the inside he was having fits of hysterical laughter as he read and reread parts of the book. You chop off Dhurgal Ap Hwywd's head but suffer a penalty because you did not rip it off with your hands and shit on the bloody stump! Decapitation unsuccessful thanks to game or dungeon master. And did Dhurgal suffer penalties as well for being fucking illiterate? There was even some sort of contest involving melees and the prize was what, a barrel of Beer? This contest was actually in progress as he spoke. They expected him to join some group to compete for a barrel of beer. That would look real good at the monastery!

"You are a Monk?" Brother Timothy turned to face both the older woman and the red-haired girl. It was the older woman who spoke. "We have need of a Cleric for our group, but a monk would be even better. Why is it you carry a sword instead of, say, a cudgel or mace?"

"I find Maces to be impractical and cudgels are better for defense than offense. Cudgels also take two hands to use. One moment, though." He remembered the knight's comment about the armor repair. Brother Timothy turned back again to address Faustus. "You do have a forge here? I am urgently in need of one."

"As much as I would like to help, our smithy had too much to drink last night and is indisposed. He will be in tomorrow, probably."

Brother Timothy produced his smithy tools, "I am a smith; I am in need of a forge is all. I need to sharpen my weapon and fix a piece of armor."

"I see that ye do have a good tool set, even if they are a bit old, but I have to worry about insurance and such. Percy here done burned off half his hair playing with it one time!" The shopkeeper laughed. "He will be here tomorrow; it's not like you will be killing any high-level creatures soon, anyhow."

Brother Timothy was in a quandary. _They have what I need but I have no way to get to use it! No way is anyone but me touching these items! _He sighed and turned to Percy. "How did you burn yourself at the forge here?" "I had the gas turned up too high; it was kind of funny, actually. I burned my face and some of my hair. It hurt, but it healed fast enough. It took a bit for the hair to grow—"

"Percy!" Faustus had a jaundiced eye on the paladin character. "Enough of that; you know the rules!"

"Okay Faustus." The paladin character removed his helmet to scratch his head. _No scarring?_ Timothy thought. _A burn like he described would have left a scar, but I do not see one._ He also saw where the armor was repaired; an excellent job, but a blow there would have seriously injured or killed someone. Before he could ask, the paladin character had left the building. An archer and what looked like another cleric or monk entered. The cleric was limping and there was an arrow sticking out of their leg. "Are you there, Faustus? We need help! I didn't see her when I fired an arrow!" The archer character helped the cleric to sit on a chair. The cleric gasped then grimaced. "God, that hurts! What in hell were you doing out there! Your group had already completed the quest!" As Faustus inspected the wound, a few others in the building moved closer to the injured cleric. For the moment, none of them were focused on Brother Timothy. At the moment, he was not focused on them either due to a feeling of internal unease. _ He burned his face and hair at a forge but has no marks from the accident? How long ago was his armor damaged? Even the force of a blow such as that would have inflicted injury on his person, let alone if the weapon penetrated the flesh beneath the armor! _His chain of thought was interrupted when Faustus spoke. "A clean shot Marvin, but I will have to break the arrow to remove it. This is one of your triple-barbed ones." "Man, you know how much these cost me?" Well, Marvin, perhaps next time you will watch your shots." Faustus deftly cut the arrow into two pieces with a cutter he had in his pocket. "Hold tight. Marian, this is not going to feel good."

"You seem to have odd dress for your character, though." It was the older lady who spoke yet again. Despite her lack of youth, she was not fully unattractive; her svelte body was covered in a dress that went from neck to ankle. In the belt she wore were two sheaths, one smaller one that seemed to contain an ornate-hilted dagger, and a larger one that maybe held some sort of small sword. Her left hand was heavily bejeweled while her right was unadorned except for a large ring on her middle finger that carried a red gemstone. Brother Timothy turned to her. "I do not think my dress is odd, it is suitable for traveling." Brother Timothy heard a gasp from the area of the injured cleric, but paid it no mind. "What sort of character do you play, milady?" The older woman giggled and replied, "I am a level 28 witch but I also have some fighting ability as well. It cost me some spell proficiency but it was worth it. My name is Lydia…and yours?" I am called Brother Timothy from a monastery near Saint Albans. Shouldn't she be at a hospital regarding that wound—"_WHAT in HELL was THAT! _His mind shrieked. Brother Timothy already knew what it was though. It was only by reflex that he turned to where the cleric and archer were, but the cleric was _walking around uninjured! _He glanced back at Lydia to see a peculiar expression on her face. She also had a hand on the hilt of her dagger! A quick scan of the immediate area showed no less than _seven_ people now focused on him, including the archer and the formerly wounded cleric. _Something is definitely wrong here! How many of these were immortal? His own kind….or his __**own kind?**_ Brother Timothy's mind kicked into overdrive. Of the seven present, one of them was Faustus. He wrote him off as a threat immediately; it seemed that he did not want any part of what might happen; even now. he was sidling off towards the perimeter. That left Lydia as the closest, followed by the archer and the cleric. Further away was the rather small red-haired female carrying a short spear and shield, what looked like a standard swordsman, and someone with a _crossbow! _ The crossbowman and the archer were the most immediate threats; that is, if he was under any threat, but he knew better. He kept Lydia in his periphery as he turned to Faustus. "How do you join up with a group to play this game?" Brother Timothy said in as pleasant of a voice as he could muster. "A group will ask you to join if they so wish." Faustus' voice was clipped and showed some strain. Brother Timothy made as if to scratch his right side, but his hand darted into his pocket where his crossbow was. A quarrel was not in its embrace, but he moved a step away from Lydia and rustled his robes enough so he hoped it covered him loading one and ratcheting the catch. The crossbowman spoke next in a icy-toned brogue. "Ye won't be joinin' any group I perceive, monk; a shame ye showed up here at the exact wrong time." "Is that so?" Brother Timothy replied in a voice equally as cold. He heard the crossbow ratchet as he released his hold over who he was and whipped out his miniature bow. It was with a smirk he saw them all stagger, the shopkeeper included. The quarrel aimed at his head skewed to the right missing him by less than a meter and thunked into the wall, penetrating nearly 4 inches. He whirled away from where Lydia had stood, aimed at a spot very close to the crossbowman, and fired. His quarrel sped true to its mark, embedding itself into the wall only a centimeter or two from the crossbowman; the acid tipped quarrel gave off acrid fumes as it ate into the wood. As quickly as he could, he replaced the crossbow; he noticed that all were recovering from their shock faster than he anticipated. The Archer was nocking an arrow! _I will put a stop to this right now! As much as I am tempted to, I dare not kill any of them…..yet._ It was good fortune that he had set down his load earlier so that he had both hands free. He shrugged back his robe and drew the sword on his back with both hands. With a whistling sound, it came around in a killing arc, but stopped just short of the archer's neck. A minor crackle of quickening fire rolled down the sword and dissipated at the tip. _All here including myself are immortal. These are not even seasoned! Maybe a little, possibly._ He only knew of one cadre that skulked about in mass numbers, but these could not possibly be it! He laughed at the thought, but one way r another he needed to find out just what the hell was going on. The archer had his arrow half nocked, but he was white with fear; not two inches away from his throat was the business end of a dark, massive-looking sword, and its holder's face had a look of fury upon it. Brother Timothy spoke.

"Let us try this again, that is, lets play a different game. You will unnock your arrow and put it back in your quiver, and you will do it NOW!" Next he addressed the crossbowman who was aghast at the acid-tipped quarrel. "You will place your crossbow on the table there. or the next quarrel hits you in the eye…..DO IT NOW!" The crossbow clattered on the table. He saw that the archer had returned the arrow to his quiver. "Let's first put this into proper perspective for ALL here in this room! This especially goes for those I can not see. Any sound I do not like and I will slaughter you all. How many of the cohort outside is also like you…immortal?" He got no answer except varying expressions from those he confronted; Lydia's countenance was brittle and her eyes blazed with fury while Marvin's expression was near unreadable. The cleric beside him still was white with fear, while the crossbowman made no move towards his weapon. The spear wielder and the swordsman! He heard the shuffle of feet as he ducked and spun around. The spear wielder had her spear back to cast as the swordsman advanced with a grim look on his countenance. Brother Timothy stepped aside as the spear lashed out in the hand of its wielder. It was no real task to snap the spear in two and deflect its path with his sword. Keeping on his left foot, he smashed his body weight into the woman spear wielder, forcing her back. He then propelled himself away a step on his left and shifted to his right foot. The swordsman's slash ripped a rent in his robes and nicked the flesh, but even untended for all these years, his sword wreaked its havoc. It severed the swordsman's weapon midway along its length then it proceeded to rip a gouge in the steel buckler he carried. Brother Timothy heard bone snap as the swordsman fell on his back, useless weapon clattering to the ground. The shield was in almost two pieces; the only thing that had saved the swordsman from worse injury was that the weapon needed sharpening. The spear woman was creeping up on his left with a short sword now. Brother Timothy backhanded her across the face with the full force of his left hand. The impact stung Brother Timothy, as used as he was to wearing the greave on his left hand, but the effect was sufficient due to his strength. Her sword clattered to the ground, and while she still was insensate, Brother Timothy stalked over until he was against one of the thick walls. The spear wielder had a cap on, but he removed it. Copious amounts of reddish auburn hair spilled out across her head when he did so. Grabbing most of the hair in his left fist, Brother Timothy twisted until she was raised up in agony on the tips of her feet. He laid his sword edge against her throat. The swordsman in the corner moaned as he cradled his broken arm, but Brother Timothy knew that even now it was healing. The venue, however, had changed somewhat. Lydia's eyes still burned with fury and she had the dagger half drawn, but her visage was now pale. The crossbowman had had his hand on his weapon, but he had released it once again. The archer and the cleric now were nearly white with fear. Faustus was now not doing much better. Two others had entered the shop though; one was Percy, the one dressed as a knight. His friend could not have been more than 160 centimeters tall, but was somewhat rotund. He was clad in some sort of chain mail and on his back was a wicked looking axe. To fill out his rather odd appearance, a foot long beard graced his countenance. Percy had his helm on so he did not readily espy Brother Timothy against the wall. The one dressed as a dwarven character had already sized up the situation. Percy spoke." Faustus, Why not have a tourney—" Not now Percy! We have a real big problem which you might see a lot better if you remove that goddamned helm!" Percy did so and then saw Brother Timothy and the situation at hand. "You there, let go of her this instant! This is against the rules we have—"Brother Timothy had finally reached his breaking point; his patience was exhausted. "_Do the rules also include a crossbow quarrel shot at your head and an attack by concentrated NUMBERS OF OUR KIND!" _ Brother Timothy's question, though starting in a normal tone, raised in timbre to almost a screeching volume at its end. Percy was going to say something else, but he stopped short. "What exactly did he say, Faustus? Is that some sort of new Orcish dialect? But they cannot sing, and that almost sounded like song. What do you think, Nathan?" Percy's comment was directed towards the dwarf character.


	12. Chapter 11

Brother Timothy in his rage had lapsed into the first language he had really learned; it was a language long extinct and not even noted in the historical record. _You need to be calm, now. If these lunatics wish to deal with you as the Ap Hwywd's have done, so be it. They have a forge here that I need, but I can not have them constantly attacking me when my back is turned. "_What rules do you mean, he who is dressed like a knight? Does that include crossbow quarrel attacks and spears from behind?" He wrenched the woman's hair up a bit for emphasis and kept the sword edge at her throat. "I am going to ask some questions, and if I do not like the answers, I will start cutting off pieces of the one I hold in thrall here. Then I will start in on some others. I believe I asked before, HOW many outside this place are like those in here? I KNOW all of you are immortal, like I am; if you want another taste of what you felt earlier, go ahead…lie!" This time Brother Timothy was not leaving anything to chance. Every few seconds his gaze swept the room, making sure no more threats emerged. Lydia's expression of fury had slightly abated, but was replaced with what seemed to be curiosity; one trait which Brother Timothy found so often aggravating in the past, but especially now. Percy the knight seemed initially outraged, but was now conversing in low tones with the dwarf character. The swordsman removed his ruined shield and inspected his sword. "Nathan, I thought ye said this was the best stainless steel ye had! That bastard ruined my sword and shield with one blow! Would ye look at this!" Despite his close brush with death, the swordsman was adamant about his ruined weapons. The woman he still had held up by her hair started moving around. "Is anyone going to answer me? Oh Well." Brother Timothy brought the sword edge close enough to the woman's throat to draw blood. She screamed, but the scream was choked off by the monk's left hand on her throat. "Last chance before I—" "All of the Anachronists you see are like us, monk! Please let my friend go!" It was the previously wounded cleric that spoke. "The archer gave her a look of reproach. "Marian! Why did you answer him? Now what in hell will we do?" "Edward," she replied, "He is like us as well; can't you see? He is not what he appears to be, though." Lydia nodded her head in agreement. "No monk fights with that level of malevolence and skill." She went silent again as she shook her head.

Brother Timothy released the pressure of the blade against the woman's neck. "Why is it that you play this inane little game? You are very lucky that none of you are really seasoned, or else you would have been dead by now; I know of only one other cadre that uses packs of immortals, and it is they I seek." Brother Timothy now put together another piece of the puzzle. "No head blows allowed. Now it makes sense."

"It is about all we can do to pass the time, monk," Faustus spoke, "any of us that have ventured too far from this demesne are invariably killed somehow. So we all congregate here in as peaceable of a manner as possible."

"You battle imaginary creatures and use dice or the word of another to determine who has won or lost?" Brother Timothy laughed. "Okay," Brother Timothy's voice had softened, but not his level of alertness. "How many is that more or less? Twenty? Thirty? More?"

Faustus cleared his throat, "I think more closer to one hundred is a correct estimate. After a number of us were killed after we left this area, it was decided to simply stay put. Since we have done so, no more of our number have perished. It is only on occasion that we have to protect who we are. You are the first that has appeared from outside here in a long time."

"And what of the others that did? And do those stupid policemen know who you are?" Brother Timothy would have laughed out loud under most any other circumstance, but not now. He knew the answer to the first question even without asking. Two times they had tried to kill him as best as they could.

"We do what we have to do to protect what we have, monk; that is how it is. As far as the constabulary is concerned, we are a bunch of freaks that play anachronistic war games." Brother Timothy had failed to notice the dwarven character up until now, but he seemed to be no threat. The man was staring intently at his sword! "What manner of metal is that, sir? It can't be pig iron; even iron is not that dark. I would guess some esoteric mix of metal? How on earth was that made?"

Brother Timothy suddenly remembered that there was a forge here. "Who would wish to know? I only came here to ask to use a forge for sharpening my sword and recasting a piece of armor. Are you a blacksmith?"

"I am the one that works here as needed; as it goes ye will cost me some work I think. I have never seen any sort of metal that could shred steel like that, though." At this admission, Brother Timothy saw a possible way out of not only his current situation, but also a way to get use of the forge he desperately needed. "You want your friend back; I am in need of the forge you have here. Perhaps we can come to an agreement of sorts." Brother Timothy still was wary of the ones in the room, but he continued. "You congregate here together to play this game in this book; I find it rather inane and amusing, but that is beside the point. You are not the ones I seek; that is, I have no quarrel with you. You see, I am NOT playing a game of the sort you are playing…not at all! I seek a murderer that stole some items from me; I may also be seeking some others who congregate in a group as you do, but they DO play rough! Nor they or I roll dice or calculate hit points and we have no game master over us. Am I making my self clear so far?" Several acknowledged what he said with barely perceptible nods of their head. _Well, so far, so good,_ he thought. No one in the room had looks of fury on their countenance anymore. A few were still rather pale, though. "The crossbowman spoke. "Wot in 'ell is this here? That looks like acid on that quarrel!" "Yes it is, along with some poison; it comes in handy at times. But getting back to our original discussion, I am in need of your forge, but I have no quarrel with you. We all are immortals in this room and there is no need to fight. If I have YOUR WORD there will be no more attacks on my person while I am here, I will release your friend. As soon as I am done with the forge work I need to do, I will leave. Agreed?" Almost as one, the others in the room huddled close and began to converse in low tones. While some punctuated their speech with angry gestures, others, especially the dwarven one, were far less expressive. Finally, they broke apart; the dwarven figure whose name was Nathan, spoke. "I asked them about what happened before I got here; it is apparent you could have killed some here, but ye didn't. You have our word that no harm will come to you here by our hand."

Brother Timothy tilted his head. _Success! But could they be trusted?_ His thoughts were interrupted by the woman whose hair he held wrapped in his left hand. "Let go of my bloody hair right now, you BASTARD!" Her grip against his hand, however futile against his strength, did belie strength of her own. He released his hold on her hair. As she moved away from him, her left foot snapped back, catching him painfully in the shin. Once she was far enough, she spun around, her eyes blazing, "Kill that bastard now! Since when have we suffered this sort of humiliation! I was treated like I was some sort of trollop to be had for nothing?" She shoved Nathan, "Kill him!"

"Caroline, I will not raise a hand against him; I gave our word as a group. There would be no percentage in it for any of us."

"No one asked for MY opinion!"

The crossbowman spoke, "Caroline, we called a truce in fair order. There is a lot more to this than you could imagine. Belay your ire until as such time as we have discussed this in full."

Caroline was still angry but she backed off.

"I will sheath my sword now; be advised that I can redraw it as quickly as needed if it comes to that." Brother Timothy did so and turned to Nathan. "May I see the forge? I have my own tools for doing what work I need." He walked to where his belongings were set and retrieved the set of tools.

Nathan inspected them with an experienced eye. "These are a right well good set of tools, but perhaps ye may need to be apprised of some changes that have been made. The forge is through here." He gestured towards a door and proceeded to enter through it. Brother Timothy followed him, aware that some unfriendly eyes were still on his back.

It only took about forty-five minutes, and then Brother Timothy was left alone with his possessions and the forge facing him. He was both mystified and pleased at the same time. _This is what happens when you do not keep abreast of things,_ he thought. The forge looked like a forge in most every way. No bellows were present, though. It was heated with some sort of hot-burning gas; _acetylene_ was what both the knight and dwarf had said. No more waiting for the right temperature, either. From cold to white hot was only a matter of minutes, with a maximum temperature well above that needed to melt Iron. _I actually only expected to be able to repair the greave; I may be able to fully recast it! _That possibility both amazed him and worried him at the same time; what if he had lost what skills he had so laboriously learned over the years? Clay or the equivalent for molds was also passé; this casting gel was not only easier to use for an experienced smith. It could be reused over and over again and was overall much easier to handle. He laughed, _no need to use lightning this time._ The easiest task at hand would be sharpening and cleaning the sword, therefore, that would be first. The metal box was set aside with the sack containing the greave. The new robe was set far away from the forge, along with the one he currently wore. He removed the top portion of his underclothes so that he was only clad from the hips to the knees. One thing had not changed. The forge threw off massive amounts of heat; the blacksmiths of yore never had to worry about freezing weather. Only after Nathan had left did Brother Timothy prepare for the work to be done. The sword was removed from its scabbard and laid aside for the moment. He turned on the forge; within minutes, the well glowed with heat. He had brought along some food with him; it had been ordered online. He ate until sated then forced himself to eat a bit more. The fat-laden energy bars tasted awful, but they provided horrendous calories for their size. He would need those for the work to come.

In no time, the sword was heated to a bright red glow. Upon his close inspection had not suffered much; only a few dull spots marred its edges; some colorful stains also broke up the black sheen of the blade. There was no way to correct this without first heating it. Only then, and with some effort, could an edge be restored to it. Well-worn sharpening stones attested to this fact. Despite the blast heat of the forge and the hard work it entailed, he enjoyed this almost as much as writing. Once the sword's blade edge glowed slightly beyond red hot, he pulled it from the forge with a heavy leather glove. Placing it into a metal stand, he began to hone and polish what he had originally made on a gamble…..an old song burst from him, so as to keep a proper working cadence…

**Area of Future Country of Wales ca. 6000 B.C.E.**

_He had learned by degrees to be civilized amongst those he was with. Some lessons were harsh while others were not.…..__ they cured him of his many bestial ways. They sheared off his matted hair, made him cook all his food. They made him wear proper clothing. They had after a time even given him a name: Ardis. They called themselves Daoine Na Sidhe; despite their large indifference towards ones of his kind, he had rescued one of their infants. This alone had saved him. He no longer fought with the dogs for his meals; they had, as his demeanor improved, allowed him to eat with them, converse with them; he had thought that they had accepted him, too. He had thought so…_

…_Many of the Daoine were indifferent to him; that is, their emotions past the very base ones could be at times inscrutable. The slant-eyed ones were of strange countenance; they only slightly resembled those they called the 'others', but it was with them he stayed. He learned their language and culture at a faster pace than many of them; this was not always looked upon favorably, but once he had learned their ways, he put his bigger size to the best advantage he could…_

…_as he grew into their social group, he befriended their smith, Tuavle'g. Perhaps it was not necessarily as a friend, but more by convenience and benefit. Tuavle'g was somewhat slant-eyed like the Daoine, but not as much as the others. He made weapons and armor for the people. He would often use the children for gathering fuel for his forge and to run the bellows as needed, but Ardis had put an end to that. He could pump the bellows hotter than any five people could. He could carry much more fuel at one time than anyone if he had to as well. As he gathered fuel, some of what he once learned came back to him about substances that could be found in the earth. He learned to render wood into charcoal, but in return showed Tuavle'g the hard black rocks he had found. At first as a reward for this labor, Tuavle'g would give him extra food. One drawback of the Daoine was their short attention spans and limited patience regarding mundane, labor-intensive tasks; soon only Ardis showed up to help the smith. Tuavle'g finally taught Ardis to smith! With the knowledge Ardis had gained long ago in addition to his training, only Ardis was learning from Tuavle'g; he was the only one who had patience enough to master the more complicated techniques and an unremitting stubbornness in learning. Some of his ideas resulted in numerous amusing catastrophes, but more often than not, they improved upon things. Tuavle'g was the richest there in the group besides their leader; he and Ardis both had two each's of their own! In time, Ardis learned to ride his each's. Though at times this provoked momentary envy from the other Daoine, Tuavle'g never spoke harshly to Ardis. There came one day when not only did Tuavle'g present Ardis with a set of tools for smithing, he __**deferred**__ to him at the forge! Tuavle'g knew when he was confronted by one more superior in skill; he was dumbfounded at first when his student surpassed him in skill, but then simply accepted it. Ardis had found a black ore which he had been able to smelt only after a laborious process. Tuavle'g was impressed, as were the others of his kind he had met; the metal in trade was worth even more than the copper they usually used, but the slant-eyed ones hated that metal. They wanted nothing to do with it. Ardis shrugged. Sometimes he thought the Daoine strange, but he kept his face shaved like them, not as hairy as those he looked like more….._

…_.it was in a most harsh manner that he learned what the Daoine really were like. For some past time, he noticed the elves to be even more cold and indifferent then they usually were. He and Tuavle'g were making more weapons as the elves required. His two each's were gone one day; they had been taken by some elves. It was at sunset that he heard the weird horn sound; it was sounded three times, followed by a lot of activity outside. He went outside to see a large group of elves mounted on each's; they were clad in their best armor and were heavily armed. When he tried to approach one of them to see what was going on, he had to jump out of the way of a sword stroke. The leader of the group put a strange helm upon their head; it had antlers rising from it. At another sound of a horn, the group of elves left the area at a gallop, completely disregarding him…._

…_they returned at sunset without any fanfare. He warily approached an elf once again but this time was not greeted with a sword stroke. Where did all of you go? He asked. We went out on a Great Hunt. We thought it would be nice to kill some things. The elf shrugged their shoulders. He looked at the each's as they returned. On several he noticed parts of animals that were edible interspersed with parts that were not. A squalling noise got his attention. Several Daoine had a woman of the others and a small others child. They tied her down to a flat stone and stared at her. She had been stripped bare of clothing. When the little child did not stop squalling, one elf spitted it on a spear. The woman screamed. They all then wandered off as if disinterested….._

…_..this behaviour went on for days. The child's corpse began to rot in the sun. On occasion an elf would visit the woman to force her or even to stare at her, but afterwards the elves forgot about her. One elf had cut some runes into the woman's forehead. When another elf showed up to have their sword repaired, they asked him what all the screaming was. Ardis picked up a club with the intention of beating some sense into the elf, but Tuavle'g stayed his hand. What is wrong with them, he asked Tuavle'g. The same one who wondered about the noise was the one who cut a rune into her head. They can't help it; it is in their nature not to care as it is within others' nature to care. No action of yours will change that fact._

…_.the woman finally died of her wounds and starvation. He buried both of them. Their stench was strong in the air, but the Daoine seemed to disregard the matter…..One even asked what he was doing. Nothing at all, he replied_

_He had been happy there, then he came to the smith one day and found the place ransacked and destroyed; in the wreckage he found Tuavle'g dead, his head severed from his body. He found out Tuavle'g was considered an abomination, born as he was of a slant-eyed female who had been violated by a male of the others. Ardis buried Tuavle'g himself with no help from anyone else and he grieved only for a short time over his friend's death, but at last he was done with that. It was not hard finding out what had happened. It seemed that a son of a leader of another group of Daoine had come looking for him at the forge, but found only Tuavle'g there; in their anger, he had suffered what Ardis would have had he been present. The Daoine were swifter of foot and more learned in some ways than what they called the others, but they did not have the body strength of humans. Ardis was far stronger than the average human due to the time he had spent at the forge. Where is this leader and his group, he asked the leader of his group. Why should you fret on the matter, Ardis? Tuavle'g is gone, but you are the better smith. I do not see it that way, he spat back. This Daoine came looking for me, but I will find him first. Blood has already been shed, Ardis; more need not be. I will gladly rebuke Tuavle'g's killer in council, but that is all that can be done. That is what you think, Ardis thought. He had repaired the forge and crafted a sword made of the hated black metal…I will rebuke him before your council does…_

…_This was the group that contained the murderer, so Ardis had been told. He had no trouble finding him. He was like HIM! He also never fell from wounds that would end the life of another man. Battle was joined as soon as both felt each other's presence. He was after my head! Ardis had the sword of black metal in his hand; Daoine scrambled clear as his battle with Tuavle'g's killer erupted in the meeting area of the council. Sword crossed sword innumerable times; the Daoine had stolen a shield of his as well! This spurred Ardis on to even more of an insane fury. A shield made of copper was no match for a sword made of black metal. Soon, the Daoine's arms were in ruins. You found me finally, Daoine Na Sidhe, now you will suffer as Tuavle'g suffered. The Daoine's headless corpse fell on the ground as the disorientation flared around Ardis…._

…_Needless to say, he was dragged before the council where his leader and the other sat in judgment. His status was the lowest of the low and had never really changed; they still considered him no more than a savage and never had accepted him. You have violated the trust in which this group has placed in you. No, I avenged a death that should not have happened. He sought me at the forge, and I made sure he found me. His standing did not save him from what he deserved. Blood had already been spilt, Ardis. You now have spilled even more. The rebuke I would have issued would have solved this matter. SOLVED it? You would have forgotten about it as quickly as you forgot about Tuavle'g! The end result was inevitable, though….As he was brought in as a savage, so had they savagely cast him out with their judgment. Now once again he was alone. He lived alone by choice this time; a matter upon which he laid extreme importance pre-occupied all his thoughts, even the one that said he should find a mate….._

_..he sat outside his crude dwelling while he gnawed on a piece of venison. He was dressed in crude furs; crude in construction, though, not quality. This was largely due to almost total lack of concern. As long as he was relatively warm, who cared how his clothing looked as long as it did its job? After his repast, he kicked around yet another failed attempt at a forging project. The sword had been a fine cast; as a matter of fact, the finest he had ever done. The problem was his strength, always his strength. He was as self-sufficient now as he had been before; it was not as if the Daoine had provided him with anything more he could not find for himself. This time, though, he had held on to the civilizing aspects of the time he had spent with them. The one major problem was others like him showing up, sometimes occasionally, sometimes constantly. He lost track of how many times he cut heads from bodies. A few fights were close, but he always emerged victorious. At times, he would break out in song to celebrate his survival. He had mastered the slant-eyed speech; he spoke it as if it were his own. All of this led to his current problem. The sword that lay in pieces on the ground was the finest he had ever made. But it was no match for his strength. He had shattered it on a recent foes' armor; it was fortunate that the blow had also shattered his enemy as well. Even swords made from the dark metal the slant-eyed ones hated would not last long. He had taken to using a thick staff of oak as much as possible, since that he seemed to not be able to destroy. Bu you could not cut off a head with such a weapon… He needed to make a weapon suited to him that would not break in battle….._

_ …daylight came, and Ardis awoke. He washed his face in a cistern nearby, and then saw that it still was dark. Why did he think it was daylight? He stepped outside to relieve himself, and then he saw the falling lights in the sky. Interesting, he thought, were the gods visiting? Then the sky lit up nearly as bright as day. A BIG light was falling from the sky! It disappeared, and then a loud boom was heard in the distance. The ground quivered under his feet. He hurriedly grabbed what things he might need for travel. There was no fear in his heart as he ran swiftly towards the sound. Maybe the gods could give him an answer to his current plight!_


	13. Chapter 12

…_he surveyed the devastation that was all around. Perhaps the god did not survive his landing, he thought. He was here though, so he decided to look around. It was very warm here, too. As he headed towards where the god must have landed, he saw others doing the same. Many dropped to the ground and never got up again. Soon, he was the only one headed towards the god. It can not be easy to approach a god, he smiled, only those worthy may do so. He failed to notice his hair falling out as he got closer to his god. He finally approached where the god had fallen, but he felt sleepy…so he slept…._

_ …he awoke and he was hungry. In his pack was some dried meat, but why did it taste so stale, almost spoiled? He looked around but could not see where the god had fallen. Then he saw something up ahead. He was crestfallen. The god had not survived their landing. Pieces of the god lay everywhere, interspersed with uprooted trees and wreckage. All this way for nothing! He kicked aside small pieces of god as he looked around. Then he found it: a large piece of god that lay half buried in the dirt. He walked around the piece of god, inspecting it from all angles. He tapped it with a metal hammer he carried; pieces of god flaked off as a result. Was this god made of metal? Did metal fall from the sky? How could such a thing be? He thought for a second. Ardis believed in the same pantheon of gods as his former group members did. As much as he believed in the pantheon though, he was capable of independent thought. He remembered the shaman from so long ago. Was this a god that died in the process of visiting, or was it metal falling from the sky? As he pondered this chain of thought, he gathered up as many little pieces of god that he could find. His furs were falling apart for some reason. That's odd, they were well cured. He was exhausted from gathering up the pieces of god, so he slept again…._

_ …he awoke hungry again, but now there was a covering of grass in the area. His hair had grown back a little, but he ignored that oddity. Instead, he cut down some small saplings and using those and strategically placed branches; he was able to transport the small pieces of god to his dwelling. It seemed to have been abandoned for a long time, he thought. Most of the clay cook pots were broken, but he salvaged enough to make do. Soon the area looked inhabited again. He had the small pieces of the metal, but now to get the big piece! (He had stopped referring to it as a god sometime back; it just did not make any sense.) He was surprised how ravenous he had become as of late. He devoured what would have been three days of food in one. He had cured some more hides for clothing and rope. Soon he was back where the big piece of metal was. It took a long time, but by main brute strength, he finally had the big piece of metal, too. Another one came for him soon after, but he had managed to win, breaking yet another of his fine weapons in the process. It was of little matter to him, though. He was going to use the metal he had found to make a perfect weapon, one suited to him that would not break apart, one that his enemies would fear….._

_ ….He still seemed to sleep more often than he did before he found the metal, though. Often upon waking, he would find corpses or bones strewn around. The vegetation around the metal withered and died, then grew back in strange forms. He thought it odd, but he paid it no mind. He built himself a forge, then stockpiled as much fuel as he could find. The soft, chalky rocks burned better than wood and longer. He discovered some other worthless metal that you could melt in a wood fire. It was useless for weapons, but he noticed that if he covered the other metal pieces with it, he did not sleep as much. His hair grew back as well. He knew that he should cast from ingots, but the metal defied any reasoning he could bring to bear. Soft parts that crumbled under his fingers were interspersed with hard parts that chipped some of his best copper axes. He solved the problem with a joyous discovery. He found more of the dark metal, almost black, that did not melt easily. He made a crude chisel and hammer from it. He constantly had to sharpen the chisel, but he was rewarded eventually with fist sized chunks of the sky metal. (That was his new name for the rocks he once thought of as gods.) What sort of weapon would he make, though? He dismissed the idea of an axe, simply because he did not like them. A sword it would be. He gazed ruefully at his scrap metal pile, though. Make another sword that would break? He needed to solve that problem soon, or he would lose his head. He picked up one of his more inferior swords. This was way too light. Then he wielded two with the same opinion. Only when he clutched 4 swords and a piece of a fifth one in his hand was he satisfied with the weight. Clay was collected for a mold. Laboriously, he designed the mold to exacting standards as were possible. When he was done, two sizeable slabs of clay were cured in the heat of the forge. He inspected his work and was satisfied. The sword would be about four and a half feet long by 3 inches wide and about three fourths of an inch thick at its center. A hilt of six inches wide and 2 inches high led to a grip wide enough for his two hands. It was crowned with a simple ball pommel, he not only despised excessive decoration, but he truly lacked that sort of skill. With great expectations, he filled the mold cavity up with sky metal, bound it and set it in the coals….._

_ …no matter how much fuel he used or how hard he worked the bellows, the metal would NOT render! This mystified him at first, and then made him more and more irritable. The parts of sky metal that were powdery had rendered somewhat, but most of the metal was in its raw state. He had been sleeping more since he had taken the metal out from under the soft metal, and his hair started to fall out again. He kicked at the mold, cursed it, kicked around everything, but it did no good. The metal would not render. He cursed at the sky during a thunderstorm and received one hell of a jolt. It had traveled down his black metal axe and coursed through his body. It did not feel pleasant. The black metal axe was warm to the touch afterwards, though. Ardis was not god-smitten like his contemporaries; he needed a solution to a problem and he might have found one. What if he made the jolt go through the sky metal? Soon, a pole of sorts pointed from his forge to the sky, as far as it could be extended and braced. All he had to do was wait for the next storm, which was not long. He watched as brilliant light hit the pole and traveled down it into the forge then into the mold that rested in the coals. Unmindful of the danger and the pain, he pumped the bellows for all he was worth. He sang in Daoine speech to the gods while what hair he had stood up on end and fires started in his dwelling. Again and again lightning traveled down the pole into the mold where the sky metal was as well into him.. He pumped the bellows until all strength had left him, and then he slept in the wreckage…._

_ …when he woke, the day was relatively sunny. The coals of his forge were barely warm, and the forge mold he had made was cracked all over. Scorch marks blackened it as well. He unbound what fastenings remained and opened the mold. At first he thought he had ruined the metal and would have to begin anew, but he then took a closer look. The sword had a black sheen; no, it was blacker than black. He compared his black metal axe to the sword. Yes , the sword was darker than the axe. He had to break the mold to extract the sword. He picked it up by its hilt. It was massively heavy and hard to swing with one hand. He tried with two. It whistled through the air like something alive! Ardis started in awe at the weapon he had made. It was a good start, he thought…_

_ …he solved the problem of sharpening the blade by heating it first. It was a slow process, but at last he was done. One half inch on either side was honed to a vicious edge. Even the point was sharpened. He had had no visitors lately. He wondered why only for a moment. He would have to learn to use the sword; no, he would have to go beyond even that. But first he had to see if his forging rang true. It sheared through bronze and black metal and copper like it was not there. Even striking a rock did not affect the edge…._

_ …one day though, he was practicing with the sword. A single mistimed blow cut his left hand to the bone. It healed quickly enough, but the memory of the pain forced him to think again. If he had lost his hand or arm, how would he fight? He would be as good as dead! He could not wear a shield as many did; he needed both hands to wield the sword most of the time. But what if he used his left arm for a shield? A risky proposition, but….._

_ …..his design was simply too intricate to work in sky metal. The best he could do was to braze strips of it across black metal, and even that was a task. He felt somewhat discouraged at his inadequacy, though, but maybe it would still work_

_ …he finally had a working arm-shield. It was not of all sky metal, but it was adequate. It wrapped around his left arm from wrist to shoulder. He even added a sort of shield for his left hand; enough metal was on even the palm side so he could rest the sword there if needed. He made a serviceable scabbard from animal hide; the sword was too large to carry on his hip, so he mounted it on his back instead. He should have not been so critical of his smithing skills, though; what he had accomplished already was astounding. He had found a use for lead and a variety of other metals, including iron. But most spectacular of all was his mastery of the sky metal. The electrolytic application of the lightning in addition to the intense heat not only allowed the metal to be rendered, but it had neutralized much of the radiation from the meteorite. Its actual melting point was far beyond that of base iron; though the sky metal did contain some carbon and iron, its composition was unbelievably esoteric and harder and more durable than even the best steel. Its extreme density made it deadlier than even a larger sword of steel would have been but Ardis never even considered this aspect of things. They had no right to treat me as they did, he thought. I will find others who may accept me; if so, I will find others that look like me. Then I may be able to make a life for myself. He practiced to exhaustion with his sword and shield. It seemed to him that the sword was lighter in weight now; the shield he had made was of second nature to him once he learned to pad it with animal skin. It had not occurred to him that his strength had increased beyond its already exceptional levels. Nor did it occur to him that the reason more did not come to fight there was that the weather and sky gods had claimed the hill for their own, or so the superstition ran. Ardis was not aware of such things. He only thought of finding others of his kind, or maybe even slant-eyed ones…_

**Present Day**

He scanned the sword for any more dull spots or discolorations. There were none to be found. Except for the newly sharpened edges, the sword was completely deep black once again; soon the edges would darken as well to match the rest of the sword. The easy part was accomplished. He set the sword back in its scabbard, but kept it close at hand. Next, he recovered the grip with a piece of rough cured leather, black as well. He sat down on the forge floor and extracted some drawings he had sketched. It had been true that when he originally made the greave, an intricate design could not be attained. Even as he rebuilt it as needed, he made some improvements, but still not what he ultimately desired. Iron turned out to be better than steel for its major component, but with this forge and the casting gel, this was an entirely different story. _ I may be able to recast it fully with this sky metal!_ With practiced eye, he quickly removed the strips that were brazed to the iron; if he was successful, after he was done, he would render what was left of the iron to junk metal. Brother Timothy felt no danger at this point and time, but he felt he could react quickly enough if it showed its face. The crossbow was within arms reach and was loaded with another quarrel just in case they decided to void the truce that had been called. _It seems I am used to that happening, aren't I. _He stared at a clock in the area; only a few hours had passed. There was a window from the forge that looked out on part of the main lobby, but he had not been able to see through it into here, so he figured no one could; he would later find this erroneous, but in actuality, Brother Timothy had naught to really worry about; from the time Nathan had left him so he could concentrate on the forge regarding his weapon, his being and ability was the subject of a very animated discussion back in the main lobby of the building. Had he bothered to notice, wisps of voice and sound did carry through the door if one listened for them. The opposite was also true, and some in the room were not as distracted as he was, and in some cases, all the more curious.

Nathan's character that he played was a dwarf as Brother Timothy thought, after comparing his armor and weaponry to the information in the book he was given. He also asked Nathan as well to confirm this information. The Dwarf character hit a switch and the room was flooded in light. The forge stood in the center of the room along with what looked like a steel counter that was heavily reinforced, leaving ample space around it; despite the used condition of the tools on the racks and stands, the room was in very tidy shape. On the walls were some weapons and armor possibly crafted from this very forge: a halberd, a large mace, and a set of standard leg armor called greaves; they were used to protect the area of the leg from knee to ankle from injury. Brother Timothy set down what he carried near the forge and opened up his tool set. "Where are the bellows needed to heat the fuel for this device? I do not see it." Nathan did not laugh at the question; instead he directly explained. "This forge uses these gases here for its heat; ye won't need a bellows for that task, because as much gas is vented into the well is the sustained temperature you get." He pointed at a digital readout above the forge. Brother Timothy continued, "How high of a temperature can be sustained in this device?" "It allegedly can handle up to 8500 degrees Celsius, though I can't see that you would need a temperature that hot." Brother Timothy's eyebrows raised in interest. "I see that you keep a tidy shop here. That is good. Is that a washroom over there in the corner?" "Aye, it is; you know how filthy ye can get from doing this kind of work; that hasn't changed." "One last question, where is the clay you use to make molds for casting?" Nathan went to a rack and pulled down a metal bucket with a lid. When he pried up the lid, a peculiar odor emanated from the container. "This here is better than clay; ye can reuse it and it is easier to shape." Contrary to what Brother Timothy may have thought, Nathan was not being totally altruistic in his offer of information. Since both men had walked through the door, Nathan was gathering information. The case that monk held could be no more than 30 centimeters in height, depth or length, yet even the monk had to use some effort in moving it around. Its handle looked to be steel cable that had been wrapped around the case like a piece of string. The case itself also looked like metal, albeit a soft metal; he saw a nick in the case when it bumped against the counter where the monk had set it. _Is that case made out of lead? If so, what in hell is inside! _ One satchel the monk carried made sounds of metal as it was set on the floor; the other seemed to have another robe in it. _Well,_ Nathan thought, _if I had any doubts of his skill, I would never have let him use the forge. As to what he is going to do here, this could turn out to be very interesting._ Nathan also neglected to mention another thing. Some time back, when the technology became affordable and useful, he had convinced Faustus to wire the room with video and audio. Cameras were emplaced in the room so as to give a full view of it to any interested. The leads all terminated into a closed-circuit setup that was hooked into a computer at Faustus' desk. The main reason to do so was so that if he or anyone else suffered an accident in the forge, someone would be able to see and hear what was going on and to get the proper help, such as when that idiot Percy burnt off half of his hair. Nathan really was not a belligerent sort; he usually left that to Caroline or Edward; he was more interested in information by far, especially relating to smithing techniques. His musings were interrupted when the monk spoke again." I am aware that these gases you use for this forge do incur expense for their procurement. If such is the case, I will see you are compensated for their use." The statement had no direct sort of command imbued inside it, but the tone of his voice left nothing to the imagination. "Very well and good luck in your endeavor, sir, and I apologize for your rather rude reception at this establishment." Nathan closed the door behind him then went to the computer. Everything would be recorded to the Hard Disk Drive from here on.

He then went out to the lobby where the others were eating fish and chips. A place was made at the table for him, and soon, all were involved in the repast. Caroline had finished her second piece of fish and was reaching for a third when she changed her mind. Fixing Nathan with a baleful stare, she spoke. "Why in HELL did you not kill that bastard! He had no call to treat us like he did. You could have easily—" The crossbowman interjected. "Ye mean as easily as he deliberately missed with that quarrel or as easily as he drew near five feet of steel from his robes, Cary? Or as easily as he made us all ill and the fact we could not detect him?" Caroline 's face grew red with fury, "We are nine against one, but of course Faustus once again did not want to get involved…figures!" She bit into a third piece of fish, but her eyes still blazed with the vehemence she only recently mouthed. Nathan let out a sigh, then he spoke, "I know you have taken a few heads, Caroline, as have others in this room have done, minus…the sometimes unfortunate occurrences that have occurred here. But let's consider this from the perspective of this game we have played for decades. By his garb, he would be classified as a Monk or a scribe, correct?" Lydia and Erin both nodded. "He carries a weapon that would penalize him in attack or defense….within the scope of the game rules at least. The crossbow his character would be forbidden to carry period, seeing as how in the late 900's the Catholic Church wanted those weapons banned. Once more, this is only within the scope of our game. He is proficient at the usage of both weapons. From what I saw of his actions, he also can read a room very well; he is no stranger to combat ." The swordsman spoke next. "That was no bloody long sword! That looked more like a claymore sword but not as massive. He sure could use it though. What do ye suppose he is doing in there, Nathan?" "I can find out; one moment." Nathan moved the flat panel PC monitor so that all eating could see the screen. The monk was clad only from waist to just above the knees. He was sitting on a stool facing his sword. Grinding sounds came from the area in addition to a song the Monk was singing. Nathan switched camera views until the sword could clearly be seen. Several of the people gasped. The sword was enough to draw their interest; it was so black that it seemed to absorb the light around it. The monk was sharpening its edge. What was peculiar, though, was the bluish lightning crackling off the sword at irregular intervals. "That's what I saw when he pointed that sword at me! That is quickening fire! He didn't take any heads though!" The archer was once again pale, but now he was wide-eyed as well. Caroline's fury had also abated and her eyes were as wide. Erin's and Lydia's expressions had not changed much; Marion at least played a scribe, whose specialty was language. As such, she and Lydia were listening to the song the monk was singing. "Marion, have you ever heard anything like that? It sounds almost like a bird singing." Even as the men were admiring the sword along with Caroline to an extent, Lydia and Marion were concentrating on the tongue the monk was using. "It sounds like Celtic; perhaps a regional dialect?" Lydia exchanged seats with the archer so that she and Marion could converse on that matter. The others in the group were more interested in the sword and the quickening fire. "He is built quite sturdy, Nathan." the archer remarked, "He is nearly Percy's size." Percy guffawed, "I might be a little taller, but I do not have muscles like that! Nathan, why are we seeing quickening fire on him without him having taken a head?" "That is a good question, Percy, but I could only hazard a guess from what has occurred. We gain power when we take a head, but what if you can only hold so much of it?" He canted a look towards Caroline. "A monk that carries a sword is a Reaver; as evil as they come! We still should have killed him when we had the chance." Nathan sighed, "You still do not understand, Caroline. You NEVER had a chance once he knew what he was up against. He spoke of another group who he said played for keeps. He has every intention of finding them. That makes him either a fool, crazy, or extremely dangerous. I would not call him a fool; he has planned a good part of what he intends to do, whatever that may be. It is rare that someone addled functions with such a pragmatic capability. I am betting he did not wreak ruin here because of that forge. That leaves only one other answer: he is capable of dealing with a group of immortals by either diplomacy or force, he is capable with what arms he has, and I fully believe that if or when he finds who he seeks, he will NOT play by OUR rules! Upon that monk is written fell Havoc, Wrack and Ruin; god knows what he has to recast in there. Do you understand now, Caroline? We are NO match for him!" Nathan's expression was rather stern as he finished, but he had finally made his point. Caroline was silent. "As such, the sooner he is gone, the better. Are we in agreement, Faustus?" Faustus vigorously shook his head in assent. "Now as to why—" "Hey," Percy almost shouted, "Lydia and Marion are in the forge area!" Nathan whirled to find out what Percy had seen. "What in hell do they think they are doing!"

Brother Timothy sensed a presence behind him in the forge. He was in the process of breaking up the piece of sky metal he had left into useable pieces. He covered the pieces of sky metal with the box as best as he could and stepped away from the forge then turned to face the disturbance. With out even thinking, he had also grabbed the sword from where he had laid it. By the time he was fully turned around, it was raised for a killing blow. _I know how to deal with truce breakers—_" Please lower your sword. We mean you no harm" It was the older woman in the finery and the other woman in a brown robe close to his in design. It was the one in the brown robe that spoke. Her complexion was pale to begin with, he realized. Unlike a lot of what he saw these days, her white blonde hair was not dyed and her eyebrows were barely visible. She also had the most vivid blue eyes. Brother Timothy lowered the sword, but did not lay it down; the older woman still had the two knives on her belt. "What is it that you want? I am busy here as you can see." Lydia spoke next. "What language was that in which you were singing that song? We have never heard it being spoken before" "I suppose the scribe there may gain some more levels if she learns a language or perhaps some other such garbage?" Brother Timothy did laugh, then, but it was devoid of humor. "Do the words have a damage capacity? How was it you heard me singing so clearly?" "We heard through the video—"Marion had abruptly silenced her voice, but it was damning enough. Brother Timothy quickly scanned the room. Yes, those were camera devices on the walls and on the ceiling. He gave a mechanical sort of wave to the nearest of them. "Full motion audio and video, I bet. Amusing, you folks are totally amusing. Let me guess, the blacksmith earns more levels for new smithing techniques?" He flipped off another one of the cameras then whirled back to the two women. "The unbelievable impertinence that I see at times—" "And why is it that you are so harsh in demand. Demeanor?" The syncopation was off as well as some of the accent, but it was unmistakable to Brother Timothy's ears. _That was understandable olden-tongue! _His hand momentarily tightened on his sword grip, but after a moment, he laid it down. He then fixed the scribe with a baleful and piercing stare. "That was not a bad attempt for what you may think it was that you spoke, but there are many who would take a homicidal umbrage to that sort of speech. I would not advise pushing this matter any further; that goes as well for what tongues I use." "Marion, what was that you said?" "I asked him why he was so harsh. The language is hard to pronounce properly, but I think it's a varied dialect of Celtic." Brother Timothy guffawed at that. This actually was amusing after all; at least this scribe person was using her brain. "Actually, what you call Celtic is a corruption of this speech that I now use. I will warn you one last time, though; there are still some around that would not like hearing it spoken again; as beautiful as it sounds, the ones who spoke it so originally had no tolerance for peace, only for bloodshed." Marion was taken aback but still somewhat enthusiastic. "This could be of use for broadening the horizons of all, an extinct language-" _I perhaps spoke too soon, he thought. "_Unlike the insipid game you play, I am not playing a game! What I am doing here is for dead serious purpose. When I find those I seek, I will kill them and any others that get in the way." "Some of us have been alive for almost two centuries," the scribe spat, "How long have you walked this earth so that you are so condescending and arrogant?" "Marion!" Lydia was in shock; she had never seen Marion that vehement. Lydia was also more than fearful of the monk in some respects; to speak of killing in so casual of a way. If he became angry again…. The monk only laughed at the comment, though "It was a surprise that it was you that dared venture in here, and also surprising that you would push what limits we have on what truce we have, scribe. Here is one last thought for you to ponder BEFORE you leave! The sword you see there, the one that is blacker than iron, I forged it myself over seven thousand years ago, and even then, I was old." Brother Timothy laughed again before turning his back on the two and continuing with his work. He did not notice the pale and shaken expression on not only the scribe's face, but on some of the others in the lobby.

The one time he had used steel for the greave, he had regretted it. It was true that it was stronger than base iron, but it was the devil to pound out any dents. It also did not repair as easily. Now he was going to recast the greave using metal even harder than steel. The main components would be no problem; he had them worked out in his mind long ago, but the fastenings would be a challenge. Mortals were becoming more and more dangerous. It was an inevitable process of things. Even with their short lives, they still managed to learn and to pass on that learning. To make sure he survived, he would have to adapt and evolve as well. This forge was a product of this knowledge and it was a wonder to behold. The sky metal stood no chance against its prodigious heat; it rendered quickly, albeit at a horrendous temperature. The time passed, but to Brother Timothy, things were progressing at a rapid pace. The upper part consisted of two pieces while the lower part comprised a total of five. Relatively soon by his estimation, the pieces were cast and were cooling off on a stone-surfaced part of the bench. He had no intention of stopping now, even though he was starting to get tired. There would be time for sleep later; now was the time to finish. He rummaged around in the forge area until he found what he needed. Through all this time, there was one peculiarity happening which he long ago learned to ignore. Crackles of blue lightning accompanied his forging work, many ending only in the new work he was creating….

The place of business had long ago closed. But there were people still in the building. Nathan and Percy were still there along with the swordsman and the archer. All of the others had gone home or to sleep long ago. "Nathan, he looks like he knows what he is doing; he is as good as you are." Nathan was rubbing his beard in consternation. "He had that bloody forge up to near 7000 degrees at one point. What in HELL is he making? And he made that sword 6000 years ago or so? That would be impossible! Thank you, Percy, but he is way the hell out of my league!" What weariness any of them felt was ignored; this was far more enthralling.

_Who am I,_ Brother Timothy wondered for a moment. That was a complicated answer. As he began work on the finer parts of the greave, he gave that question more thought….

**Area of Future Country of Wales ca. 4500 B.C.E.**

_….it had not been the easiest of undertakings. People were wary of strangers and rightly so at times. Some simply turned their backs on him as he approached; others confronted him with armed warriors. He had no desire to fight them, though. With others of his kind, that was a different matter entirely. He had fought some battles of that sort since leaving his dwelling, if they could be called that. Bronze and copper were like butter against his sword. After each battle, he almost welcomed the disorienting lightning that symbolized yet another victory. The last battle had been strange, though. He took the head and waited for the lightning, but what lightning that erupted seemed to just sink into his body and armor. There was no disorientation. He paid it no mind. But then he noticed those of his kind who initially approached for battle would flee before even a blow was exchanged. He was no coward; he was always prepared to fight. He never partook to excess the strong drink some tribes favored. Then there came one who did not flee; it was not even a human. He looked in shock at the lightning that crackled from his frame as he approached it. It was some sort of hairy beast, the likes of which he had never seen before. He had been seriously injured in that fight, but his sword and his strength did not fail him. The lightning that followed destroyed the glade where they had fought, though. Then he discovered that he could hide from most of them if needed; they simply would not be aware of him unless he chose it to be so. These strange occurrences did not concern him too much because he was looking for a tribe who would accept him. He discovered a large gathering at one point. Their warriors eyed him balefully, but no one turned their backs to him. He set up a dwelling at the outskirts of the settlement where those of low status resided. He erected a small forge to do what work he needed, but soon they came to him. The three other smiths the tribe had lived near the chieftain and warriors and would not deign to help those of low caste. Ardis did not care about status, though. Just the fact that they had not driven him away was enough for the moment…._

_ ….he was eating some game he had caught and watching his forge when the cry arose. He stepped out of his dwelling to see people all around fleeing as fast as they could. Several lay dead on the ground. Then he saw the reason for their flight. Raiders from the north. He had seen them at times when he lived on his own, but they never bothered him. These were hell bent on…something, though. One had even picked up a woman and was trying to carry her off. One of the raiders made a fatal mistake; he struck Ardis with a stone axe. It was only a glancing blow, but it was enough to provoke him to wrath. His sword shattered the axe and its wielder with one blow. Even now, he saw warriors converging on the raiders, but they were not doing so well. These Picts had much more body strength than most of his kind and were now slaughtering the warriors with this asset. Another raider attacked him. He gutted the second one then joined the fray. The raiders retreated in hasty order, but not without causing damage. Four children and two women were dead, along with five warriors. Many more were wounded. Ardis had slaughtered eleven of the raiders unassisted, though. It had not gone unnoticed. Later, after he had cleansed the gore as best he could from himself, several of the chieftain's warriors bid him come to their leader's tent. The chieftain's tent was resplendent with furs and food. He had many people he called retainers there as well. Ardis was called up in front of the chieftain. We only were willing to tolerate you here for the time, but I am told you sent eleven of those raiders to the place where they all belong. Is this true? The chieftain was older than most, but still looked physically fit. I think I only killed ten on my own. I did not really keep track. Your tolerance is enough; I at least have a dwelling to call my own. How are you named, stranger? I am Ardis. The chieftain stood up from his rather ornate chair. Be it now known, that since this stranger was willing to fight for this settlement, so shall he be accepted! Ardis is stranger no more! More than a few warriors cheered for this proclamation, but Ardis was curious about one of the retainers. A quick look at their face told him what he needed to know; this was a slant-eyed one, one of the Daoine Na Sidhe. He spoke directly at them. How is it that your people are hard to find? You know who I am? Ardis replied in their speech to the shock of all present. I know of your race, yes. But they seem to be disappearing. We are, and there is nothing we can do. Your kind will most assuredly inherit this place. The best we can hope for is our memory will survive us. Ardis lowered his head toward the being as a sign of respect….later on, he managed to etch the tribes' runic symbol into the hilt of his sword…._

…_it did not seem to matter to these people that he did not age or grow sick. He was happy where he was. He became fast friends with the other smiths in the settlement; jealousy had not affected them. Ardis was much better at forging than they, this was simply accepted. Items of bronze and copper flowed from his forge. He had even taught himself a satisfactory way to render the black metal that was superior to even copper. Because it was not easy to find, it became a valuable commodity. The current chieftain was proud of his iron sword and iron ridged shield, but the Daoine hissed at them. One day the Daoine left and never returned. Ardis was sad; once they had been everywhere, but now they were hard to find. Other things soon occupied his attention, though. His status was rising in this tribe. Not only could he smith, but he was not afraid to hunt. He never was short of provender. He let his hair grow long like the others and kept it braided so as to keep it out of his way. As the tribe swelled in numbers, so did they not only meet other tribes, but came into more contact with the Pict savages. Despite their eventually being driven off, many died or were maimed from their incursions. Even Ardis was not as strong as their males, and he was stronger than the other humans. His people would always get the worst of any close combat. What was needed was a way to kill them before they could get close enough to do harm…One thing he found different here, though. The 'shamans' of this tribe were called druids. He had always been wary of this sort for good reason, but these were different. They actually welcomed new ideas! Most of them did anyways. He had observed the children playing with what looked like a stick with some cord attached to both ends. They used this to fire small, straight twigs at a target. The warriors and his fellow smiths were in shock when he traded an iron eating knife for one of the toys. Even the chieftain thought it unseemly, but they eventually discovered that Ardis never did anything without a reason. Some time later, when the warriors were gathered and talking, Ardis appeared in the midst of them. You suffer greatly when you fight those savages. They are stronger than you are; your spears, however strengthened, are no match for their brute strength. I have something that will kill them long before they can reach you. Ardis was not considered a warrior, but more than one had weapons and armor forged by him. He was holding a much larger version of that children's toy. He pointed at a tree some way off. The stick he fired with the toy buried itself into the tree four inches deep. Would that not kill a savage long before he could get close to you? One of the warriors laughed, but we wield sword and shield, not some children's toy! Several of the warriors were silent though; their gaze centered on what Ardis had used. A bow he called it. Who says you have to wield this? He signaled towards the crowd that gathered. A crippled warrior stepped out and limped towards Ardis. This warrior was crippled in his leg, but not his arms. He proved a better shot than even Ardis. This would take some co-operation, but if you protected this bowman with your weapons, many more of them would die, and less of you. I know it is up to the chieftain, but is that what you want to happen?_

_ ….grudgingly, the warriors tried co-operating with these 'bowmen'. Ardis had found numerous people willing to learn to use this weapon. The druid priests also helped in improving its design. The first time it was tried against the raiders, it did not work as well as planned. But the casualties were far less. Once it was perfected and the bowmen attained better accuracy, it worked with a vengeance. Several wood crafters had discovered that feathers on the end of the arrow stabilized its flight. When a large group of Picts attacked the tribe, they got a rude surprise: clouds of arrows falling into their midst, slaughtering them en masse. No Celt died that day, but many of the savages did. Ardis was called before the reigning chieftain and given the status of warrior…another rune etched into his sword... Any time the Picts attacked, they were slaughtered. The savages never seemed to learn from their mistakes. For every remote outpost they destroyed, scores died on the field. There were still times when it came to sword and shield. Ardis was feared by the savages, his whistling sword spelling doom for many of them. His fellow warriors stood in awe at his prowess. More and more of them had iron weapons, but even those could not stand against his sword. The tribe grew in numbers in many ways. If it wasn't an act of diplomacy, it was because the clan no longer suffered predations from the savages._

_ …the chieftain had been ill for several days because of some poisoned meat. At last, the leader had passed on in his sleep. He had left no heir of legal age to rule, though; his young wife had a son and daughter still in swaddling clothes. The druids conferred for the longest time. Their leader, Clydwnn, hated Ardis with a passion. While it seemed most of the warriors respected him due to his status, Ardis did not. He was not in awe of Clydwnn's status; he thought him a pompous fool. Many other druids Ardis had the utmost respect, female and male. He considered Clydwnn power mad and therefore dangerous. His worst fears were realized when Clydwnn emerged with another warrior in tow: Ulidall. He and Ardis also did not get along, but he was rightfully wary of Ardis' standing in the tribe. He had a cruel streak which Ardis despised. You are weak, Ulidall, and so is that druid with you. Clydwnn had anointed Ulidall the chieftain! Almost immediately afterwards, Ulidall had the former chieftain's wife dragged out along with her children. She will not suffer to live! He shouted as he raised his sword. _

_STOP! Ardis' yell silenced all present. You would slaughter that which will mean you no harm? _

_Ulidall glared at Ardis. I am chieftain and I will do what I please! I have been anointed your leader by those who administer your laws! He pointed at the druids. _

_If you mean to slaughter those who are in no position to do you harm….then I defy what law you have stated to be! Ardis walked towards Ulidall, hands ready to draw his sword. _

_Ulidall paled and retreated; the look on Ardis' face was terrible to behold. Ulidall gestured, and a veritable giant of a man stepped forth to block Ardis' path. He was easily two heads taller than Ardis, with muscles to match. In each hand swung a double –bladed axe. A sneer on his visage made his homely features even more gruesome. You will have to fight my designate before me! Ulidall chortled with glee. Thankfully, several of the warriors pulled the woman and children to safety, because __without any warning, the giant was upon him. One blow he blocked with his greave, though it jarred his arm. He dodged the other axe and skipped away. He drew his sword and faced the giant. He felt a tingling flow across his body. This was one of his kind! He was sure of it. He relaxed his effort to block what he was and watched the giant falter, than stagger. The sneer had been replaced with a look of horror. The druids and others screamed in shock. Ardis had bluish lightning crackling across his body, up the sword, down the greave. The giant gave an almost animal howl and charged. One axe was smashed apart when it hit his sword edge-on. The giant stood no chance despite his strength. Soon his head rolled on the ground along with the pieces of the shattered axes. The lightning crackled into Ardis, but once again did not disorient. Ulidall tried to throw a spear, but a warrior cut him down. All was not done yet, though. Clydwnn screamed curses at Ardis, cursing him most foully in the names of whatever gods he could remember. Ardis decided to solve this issue once and for all. Clydwnn's bloody corpse fell to the ground as well. Ardis glared at all that were witness to the carnage. Are there any left who wish to attack me? Speak now if you dare! He glowered at the druids, but not a word from that contingent. Then he glared at the warriors. They were equally as smart; speak against a warrior such as that? One who commanded the lightning? Sooner would they offend one of their pantheon's gods…if Ardis was not already one of them? Very well, Ardis said. He stalked over to the former chieftain's wife, who screamed. He realized he still held his sword, ready to kill anyone that challenged him. After he wiped it clean on Clydwnn's corpse, he sheathed it. He set the woman on her feet and gave her the children. You shall live, he said, and your children with you. There has been enough death for today. Weeping, she sought to embrace him, but he had already turned to the warriors. I claim the title of Chieftain! If any oppose me, say so now! If you are with me, then shall you show that acknowledgement! His features had softened somewhat, but still were wary. The first to do so was the warrior that had cut down Ulidall. In rapid succession, the others followed. Near ten score of warriors accepted his rule! Now, only the druids remained. He addressed the next in line of authority, Madhcel. What Clydwnn did was unconscionable. You will minister to the people's needs, cure their ills, and hopefully follow your learned ways. Two of you will even advise me. The druids seemed only too willing to acquiesce. Then Ardis' expression grew dark once again. You will NOT tell me how to rule, though, and any more of Clydwnn's ilk that arise, I will strike them down as I did him! Do you understand? The druids remained silent at his riposte. He removed about half his sword from the scabbard. The whole tribe, even the warriors, gasped. DO YOU UNDERSTAND! Finally, the druids agreed. The former chieftain had loved his riches. Piles of furs and jewelry were everywhere. The chair in which he sat Ardis found distasteful as well. He was owner of all this? Why would one man need all this anyways? That was easy to remedy though. To the consternation of the warriors and even the whole tribe, Ardis literally cleaned house. Most of the furs were given to those needing them. He had the gem encrusted chair rendered. He built himself a suitable chair out of plain wood, solid but undecorated. He etched another rune into his sword hilt. Even though he was now the chieftain of his tribe, he was not afraid of doing his share of work. It was strange that he never took a woman for his own; even most nights he slept alone in his dwelling. It mattered little in the long run though, for the tribe prospered and grew under his rather pragmatic rule….._


	14. Chapter 13

…_to think I could have this one killed with a gesture, he thought. The one in question was an old man, seemingly feeble in body. His blow against him was not so feeble, though. Three grim-faced guards held the man immobile. Ardis held a piece of sheepskin with odd looking, uniform stains on it. They looked something like what he had etched on his sword hilt, but more elaborate. Tell me, he said, staring at the old man intensely, why do you persist in marking up perfectly good pieces of hide with these stains? The old man attacked him when he attempted to use the piece of sheepskin as a rag to wipe up a spill of wine. All you seem to offer for trade are marked up hides? Ardis guffawed aloud at this comment. Yet, you seem to get more in trade for these than the smith gets for weapons? How is this old man? More waves of laughter this time, at the expense of the old man. How would the ignorant and unschooled know anything of the value of knowledge? The old man spat back. That evoked a growl and an upraised sword from one of the warriors. Ardis waved that warrior back, though. I am the chieftain of this tribe. I could have you killed for striking me. Yet when I sought to possibly damage this hide, you attacked me with the zeal and fearlessness of a warrior. What knowledge that has been recorded must be protected from the likes of you! The old man shrilled back. Only those who know what those markings mean can determine its real worth! An enigma indeed, Ardis thought. These stains meant knowledge? He laughed aloud, but a non-threatening sort of laugh. I or any one of my warriors could kill you easily, old man, but even in the grip of three of them, you are defiant and faithful to what you do. He gestured to the guards. Release him and return to him all his stained skins. The guards were in shock. I said release the old man! They did so and returned to him his skins. Ardis thought about the old man's statements for a long time….._

_ …..It was early evening when he felt it. He was talking to his guards when the tingle first brushed across his consciousness. Another one! There were times when he almost forgot what he was; until something showed him the true reality of things. The babes and woman he had spared were long dead, so were many others. No one questioned the fact that he never aged or got sick. He had grown content here. He was accepted. He would…destroy anything that would endanger this. He arose from his chair. A foe of mine is here and I must meet them in battle, he said. As one, his guards arose begging for the honor to be designated, but Ardis sighed. This foe is one I must meet on my own, or else they may endanger all here. You will guard my chair. If I do not return, choose amongst yourselves who shall replace me. Without another word, Ardis followed the sensation…._

_ …he had never seen a warrior like this. Short , curly hair with skin of midnight. It did not matter though. I am Ardis chieftain of this tribe. He drew his sword. The dark warrior yelled and attacked him. Soon, the warrior's arms and armor were in ruins. Ardis prepared to deliver the killing strike…..NO! A woman rushed out to cover the dark warrior with her body. I am the one you seek, not him. Spare his life and I shall surrender you mine with no struggle. After seeing to her guards' wounds, she willing walked before Ardis, then stopped and lowered her head. She had set aside some…marked up hides in a pile away from her. Moments later, she looked up at Ardis. You do not strike? Please spare my guards life! Ardis looked at her. Why do you carry around marked up sheepskins? Do you not know how to wield a weapon in your defense? I am not so old, but I have heard of you. Many have heard of you. The ones who stay away from here are the ones who live. There are many here who wish to have tomes. I guess my insistence will lead to my death. She once again bowed her head. Ardis sheathed his sword and crouched down to look at the marked up hides. These are what? What is a tome? The woman reached into her dress. Ardis rolled away and made to draw his sword again, wary of a trick, but all that the woman held was a piece of bone and a clay pot. She proceeded to mark up a blank spot of hide with these implements. Ardis was fascinated. Those marks mean something to you? Yes, she said, that is your name. She slowly pronounced the runes. You can not read? He told her about the old man and his accusations. The woman was rather pretty in visage. Ardis had never considered any others of his kind as friends. They either ran away or they died at his hands. She was of his kind, but seemed to be harmless. She would not wither away and die. She would be as unchanging as he was, at least in body. She…..could teach him to read those stains! He looked over at her. She had put away the piece of bone and clay pot and once again extended her head on the ground. He arose and lifted her to her feet. She froze for a second then sighed. If you wish to pleasure yourself with me first, I am in no position to refuse. She began to remove her dress, but Ardis stopped her. You are the first of my kind who does not seem to mean me any harm. I will not take your head, but you must show me what these stains mean. Agreed?..._

_ …her name was Blaenwys and she had been true to her word. Ardis had her live in his tent; this stopped the endless parade of women trying to foist their daughters off on him. He had a sword made for her, and despite her protests, made her learn how to use it. Eventually, her word was accepted in place of his own on many matters. And eventually, she willingly came to him and shared his bed. He caught on fast to the reading; even she was astounded at his quick mastery. His guards shook their heads, but still remained loyal to him. Those around them changed and passed on, but they did not. He was happy…_

Brother Timothy awoke. He had slept on his robe on the floor. When had he fallen asleep? And why was he thinking about that time of his life? _It must have been those women talking to me…while I used the forge!_ He scrambled erect and stalked over to the forge, but it was barely warm to the touch. He remembered now. He had lost track of time for a moment. He checked a clock on the wall. He had been in here for nearly 24 hours! He had honed his sword then…_he had recast the greave!_ He quickly looked around. There it was resting on the stone. He must have finished it, and then slept; he only vaguely remembered its finer points. It looked nothing like the old greave. Already the sky metal was oxidizing in the air; soon it would be as black as the sword. This time, there was no crude piece of iron with bars of sky metal on top; as he had thought in his head, he needed to adapt as well to the modern times. The lower part was smoothly banded, the lines flowing at an angle that was left to upper right. The forearm piece was one whole piece, the heavier banding in the wrist area was the second piece, and the part shielding his left hand comprised the third, fourth and fifth parts. He had even managed to work more flexibility into that part! The upper part was smooth metal in two separate pieces: One piece went from the elbow joint up to the shoulder while the other piece covered the shoulder while overlapping the preceding piece. Even the hinging and riveting were of sky metal, worked as intricately as he was able to do. He wrapped his arm in a piece of sheepskin he had brought, and then tried on the greave. The greave was still warm from its creation, but it felt cool and soothing on his arm. There were three catches for the upper section and 5 for the lower; the hand assembly fit perfectly around his left hand, completely sheathing the top of it while allowing maximum movement possible. The hand cover was well protected by not only an extra band of metal that circled his wrist, but extra metal as well on the outside edge of his hand casement. It was here that he had made a deadly modification to the piece. When his hand was curled, the extra metal looked like sharp peaks in the metal that could easily break or deflect a sword, but when the fingers were extended, the extra metal formed in a distinct line with a cutting edge! The outside area of his left hand was now a cutting weapon in its own right, powered by his strength alone. He had found something called graphite; it lubricated better than the oil he used to use; he made sure that he sealed the places where he had used the lubricant. The greave was actually lighter than the older ones; at least it was no heavier since the amount of sky metal used was no where near the amount of iron used before. He still had a piece of sky metal left! He wrapped it securely in the lead cloth then restored it to its box. He was filthy from his exertions, though. After he removed the greave, he found a shower that he put to immediate use. Then after putting on clean underclothing, he tried on his new robe. He knew it would fit; he had sent one of his old robes to be retrofitted and retrofitted it was. It was not as pliant as it was before, but it was lighter; it still had a brown sort of color, but now that color was a bit muted. A portion of the woolen fibers had been painstakingly extracted; in their place were strands of the highest grade of Kevlar that could be found. More had been emplaced in the hood and upper body areas; less in the lower areas. His crossbow disappeared into the new robes right pocket; so did the plastic card and phone the Monsignor had given to him. Something else was in the pocket besides the card. It was the gold colored necklace and pendant. He put that in his new robe's left pocket for the moment. He removed the robe again only to mount the scabbard on his back with the sword. Once he put the robe back on and adjusted its deliberately baggy folds, the top part of the sword was only visible with abrupt movement or if he purposefully chose to draw it. He tried a draw of the sword. It tangled in the robes. _The price of not practicing. _He laughed, but continued his refresher course. In a very short period of time, millennia of acquired knowledge came back to him. _Rest position then block, strike, parry, strike, retreat and reave, recover. _ Soon, he was nothing but a dancing blur of brown accompanied by a deadly whistling as his sword cleaved the air. _I am as ready as I will ever be,_ he thought. _First, I must get back the stolen items…..then I will deal with the murderer….perhaps some of them as well... _ He laughed aloud again, but it was the laugh of the icy winter wind….He quickly packed up the dirty underclothing and old robe. It took no more than a few moments to turn the old greave into slag. He formed it into crude ingots and left it. He turned off the forge before he left. Dawn now paled the sky.

_…she had awakened from such a beautiful dream. She was back where she belonged, back with her siblings and cousins, back before that DESTROYER….she sat up and then focused on her surroundings. Her whole body was covered in matted filth. What clothes she had worn were shreds. She arose from her resting place. Even as filth-encrusted as she was, the stench down here made her wrinkle her nose. What on earth was she doing here? Why….then a torrent of memories flooded her being. She staggered and cradled her head. Soon she knew what she needed to know. This time she jerked fully erect. A set of mesmerizing green eyes focused on what little illumination there was down here in the catacombs. She knew where she needed to go; it was only a matter of retracing her steps. Her memory had not failed her. Soon she was walking up a flight of stairs and knocking at a door. The one who opened it paid her condition of nudity no mind, despite being male. A shower and a pile of womanly accoutrements awaited her…..she smiled. Her incisors were filed to points. It had been so long…..but no longer. As the filth was scrubbed away in the shower, she began to make plans…._

Brother Timothy walked out into the lobby of the building; by his estimation, it was in the early morning. He was tired, but well rested enough to function at least regarding the matters at hand. To his amusing surprise, Faustus was at his counter while a somewhat bleary-eyed Nathan sat at a table with what looked like leavings of an earlier repast. Percy and the one called Edward were there as well, animatedly discussing something. When Faustus looked up and saw the monk though, he made a slight hissing sound and chopped his hand through the air. The conversation at the table as abruptly stopped. Brother Timothy was on edge from the events last night, so he raked a glance over the table's occupants, to find them all staring _at him! _ He was simply going to leave the establishment, but it was not like he had any idea where he had to go. With a sigh, he turned to the men. "What?" Percy spoke first. "Nathan was wondering what in hell you forged in there last night and why you had the temperature so high on the forge." Just then, the door opened and Marion. Caroline and Lydia showed up with what looked like morning provender. "Here you are, boys, fresh from the shop over the way. Has he left—"Marion's voice froze as she saw Brother Timothy standing there; her eyes grew wide. "I was in process of doing so, but your compatriots seem to have their own questions, milady." Brother Timothy pulled his left sleeve back to show the thing he had forged; the shininess was already fading; in a short time, it would be as black as the sword. "It is a greave I have used since shortly after making the sword. It functions as does a shield would." Brother Timothy sat down on a chair with a sigh. "I also apologize for my abruptness yesterday as well, Caroline." The monk tipped his head in respect. Nathan finally let go what was on his mind. "Ye had the forge up to near 4000 degrees Celsius; there's no way that metal could have been worked even 200 years ago, let alone 6000." "I had the assistance of a lightning storm at the time I forged it, and even then, I barely knew what I was doing. I did, however, speak the truth, as discomfiting as it might seem." "What sort of metal is that?" "That I also do not really know, except it is more dense and stronger than steel. It fell from the sky." Brother Timothy was thinking while he spoke. _What do I do with the rest of this metal? I assuredly can not send it by post, not with their new rules of paranoia._ Brother Timothy had made up his mind. As ridiculous as he thought their game was, some of them were a lot more pragmatic than the others. Nathan had never raised a hand against him; actually, he was more curious than dangerous in his opinion. "In this case, Nathan, I have a bit more of the metal I recovered. As you have seen, it is a bit harder to work with then the average metallic compounds, but perhaps you can better solve its mysteries than I. You will need to keep it in this box, though, because it still has some radioactivity." He set the box down near Nathan. Nathan raised his eyebrows at the proffered gift. He offered Brother Timothy some sausage and biscuits from his meal. The monk did not realize he was even hungry until he started eating. _Now what in hell do I do? _Brother Timothy had no idea where to go next; his plan only had coalesced up until the point of repairing his weapons. The door opened up again and a police officer entered the room. It was the younger of the two that had rousted him yesterday. "Good morning to all of you! How are things? I see ye found your wayward member there." He gestured at the monk. "I was not exactly wayward. But I found what I sought. I guess I am not a freak this morning like I was yesterday?" The Monks tone was not quite friendly. "My partner is not the most congenial sort at times; for that I apologize. If ye had to go home every day to his harridan of a wife, it would not put you in the best sorts either!" At the monk's frosty smile, the policeman added. "Begging yer forgiveness, Father, I hope you understand—""I do. I am married to the Church. And at times, she can be a harsh mistress as well." After the constable left, Brother Timothy took out the chain and pendant he had taken earlier. Nathan turned to him as he spoke. "Where will you be going from here?" "I have no idea at this time. I have this thing, but that is about all." Nathan looked at the chain and pendant. "This is good quality gold; I would say at least 14K if not higher. Did you know there is writing on it?" Brother Timothy shrugged. "What does it say?" "Well, there is a name on the front, and another upon the back. One second." Nathan quickly appeared with a loupe in hand. "It looks like 'Lyonal' or something on the front. On the back it says from G. Hyvern, then 14K and a hallmark." "What sort of name is that?" Marion spoke up. "That is Welsh I think." Brother Timothy snorted. "Welsh? That doesn't sound like Welsh to me; they precede their names with a 'from' designation." Percy suddenly brightened. "They have not done that for a long time. Why not just look it up in a phone book?" Brother Timothy saw a phone book upon the counter and reached for it, but Percy just laughed. "I doubt it would be in there! Use the internet phonebook." Brother Timothy gave him a rather confused expression. Nathan rescued the awkward moment though. He opened up a search engine and typed the name into the box. It generated numerous hits, so he tried 'G Hyvern' next. This drastically reduced the number of hits and placed several information laden ones at the top. "See, here are several: Gail Hyvern and a George and a Gwyneth. All of them are in Wales." Brother Timothy was puzzled for only a moment. He knew how to click on links and read. He copied down the contact information for a total of 15 possible names. All of them were located in the Wales area. _How do you know that the owner of this is the culprit?_ The truth was he had only this pendant to lead him where he possibly needed to go. This location was also a straight shot from the monastery. There was a train depot not too far from here. He thanked Nathan and the others and then left the forge. He had a train to catch; and after a few more hours had passed some numbers to call. _I will find you…and then you will pay…._ Soon, he was on a train to some place called Carmarthen.

Lyonal felt a sense of relief. _Finally we can conclude our business. _ He had gotten a short phone call stating where to be at what time. Noon, he would be shut of these items and able to make future plans. He had actually inspected the items he had stolen. The tomes had locking clasps, but they also had something else he had been lucky to see earlier before it was too late: A plethora of deadly poisons soaked into the page edges. He wisely decided to leave those alone. The old piece of parchment was printed in Latin. It was calligraphy rather than printing, though. He had deciphered enough of it to know that it was an excommunication order against the Monastery from where he had stolen it. The cross with the parchment was to enforce the validity of the edict. The circlet was the most intriguing of the items, if the most plain. Sterling silver it was, thirty six ounces in weight. Its only mark was a rune in its center. He had poked through Gwyneth's research as clandestinely as possible, but could find no rune of such that even came close to it. He had replaced the items in the sack. All that remained was to wait until the appointed time. Gwyneth worried him, though. These last few days she had looked rather drawn out and haggard, as if she was not sleeping well. Her usual cheerful demeanor was also subdued. It never occurred to him that part of her worry was because of him. Whether it was less or more, thieves were a self-centered lot….

Considering how he was dressed, Brother Timothy was paid little attention to on the train. He had purchased a compartment for himself; the extra cost was worth the solitude that accompanied it. His outward demeanor was calm, but inside his mind roiled with all sorts of questions. He mentally pressed down on the turmoil, blocking most of it out. Instead he centered on hard, cold facts. _If this was simply a happenstance theft, I retrieve the items; deal with the murderer, then return. But what if it is not? Then I prepare for slaughter, since they will be after me and whoever is left that sided with me._ He smiled a cold grimace at that thought. _They assuredly have the numbers, but none save maybe one of them could stand against me._ He turned his mind to the work he had cut out for him. The first four numbers were not what he sought. By the fifth number, he had his story down pat. That made going through the rest of them far easier. Within two hours, he had eliminated all but two of the names.

Duncan was not sure he wanted to read the paper that arrived. Dawson and his colleagues had done their best to soothe ruffled feathers, but things were anything but tranquil. Four more watchers and three more immortals were dead in addition to the ones already noted. One immortal had been shot with a crossbow of all things before being beheaded. One watcher had been hacked apart into multiple pieces and some of those were missing. New York and London were where the latest deaths occurred. Methos was nowhere to be found, and he couldn't reach Amanda. He needed to ask Amanda some questions, but Methos concerned him the most. He had told Dawson about their conversation; even now, he had several watchers researching the origin of the rules. Others were researching an even more serious matter: They now had five unknown immortals. It was not to say that their group was perfect by any means, but they were pretty efficient in discovering what immortal was where. Still others had researched any manifestation of what Methos had said, but so far, nothing. That Monastery where the theft occurred, it was of no real significance. Any trail they found seemed to lead to a dead end. _Except Amanda is the one who said she was researching that question,_ he thought. _Maybe it is coincidence, but all this seems to flow from that point. _He scowled as his visage grew grim for a moment. _ That bastard Methos is hiding somewhere. He probably has some of the answers!_ What in hell could have scared him so much besides being attacked by two immortals? It was as if he had expected that to happen! But why, though? Maybe some answers could be found at the Monastery. He would wait to see if Dawson found Methos first. _Or if I find Amanda first! _ He had an ungodly amount of patience regarding her, but he feared one day his patience would come to an end. If her borrowing partners of yore did not force him into battle, it was some psychopath after parts of a legendary necklace which thankfully was at the bottom of a deep river now. Sighing deeply, he once again attempted to contact Amanda.

**Tara Hill ca. 4000 B.C.**

…_He thought he could not ever be happier or more content. Under his rule, his tribe grew and prospered. They had come into contact with other tribes in their area and even heard about more tribes that lay beyond the water south of here. Learning to read the stained sheepskins called tomes was a delight to Ardis. His guards shook their heads at his wonderment. What good was reading for a warrior or a king? He had learned that the druids were cheating him in trade and tribute. The error was rectified after he picked one up by the neck and rattled them until their bowels emptied in fear. Unlike the smaller tribes, he now welcomed scribes and scholars from anywhere. His queen was largely responsible for this, but he was in agreement. Then one day a messenger arrived. A summons was made to all the Celtic chieftains throughout the land to appear at Temair. This was a place across the Western water; a place that was held sacred by all. Ardis did not know why he was summoned, but he knew it would be in bad order to ignore it. He did not mind the traveling part. He did mind the druid advisors fussing over his clothes and raiment. A ridiculous crown to wear? No way. His mark of leadership was etched into his sword hilt. Ridiculous clothes to proclaim his importance? Why? He did wear his best furs , though. Blaenwys put on a decent quality dress. Finally, the day arrived for travel to the holy place. Ardis had with him 15 of his guards; four others he told to guard his and Blaenwys' chairs. His only other agreed upon company was a young boy as a chore runner and a druid to advise. Blaenwys had with her four women to tend to her needs. And so the twenty-three of them traveled a relatively short distance to the Western water. The passage across was of no consequence, except Blaenwys and a few others being queasy. They finally arrived at their destination. Ardis had never seen so many people in one place before. And there were Daoine Na Sidhe! With delight he tried to engage them in conversation, but to his disappointment he found them stand offish and almost cold. There were days of festivities and celebration. Ardis participated somewhat, but he was extremely wary. There were others of his kind here. Many of them. Some were even in groups. He cautioned Blaenwys about this as soon as possible. He really had no desire to fight; he was happy in his existence. He knew that his long existence had created the happiness, though. As sunset approached on the fifth day, he was handed another summons for him and him alone. He instructed his guards to protect Blaenwys while he was gone, then he went to the appointed place. There were a few score of people here it seemed. Some of them were Daoine even. It was only afterwards when they all were seated in a rough circle and silent that a snow haired female Daoine spoke in their singsong Olden Tongue. We were those who came before you, and you will remain when we are gone. There are those among you that know us and respect us, but that is no longer enough. You forge for yourselves the black metal that is a bane to our being; we can no longer freely walk amongst you. You are fecund and have swelled greatly in numbers. It is time that we and you choose from amongst ourselves one to lead us all, a King of all the tribes! This brought shouts and cheers from near all present. It also brought some immediate attempts to establish rank and pecking order; some turned physical. But soon all were quiet again as they were led to a stone resting in the center of a stone circle. One by one, the chieftains were instructed to to__uch the stone. Nothing happened; none of the Daoine or humans affected the stone in any way. Soon only a very few were left. One of them was an older man with grey streaking his flaming red hair. He approached the stone, but the four Daoine guards hissed at him and blocked his path with their spears. One of the others got a faint glow out of the rock, but nothing more. Only Ardis and the red haired man stood untried. Will you not touch the Stone of Destiny? It was the snow haired female who had originally spoken. Maybe I will, maybe not. Why is the red haired one barred from the stone? That is not your concern. You are commanded to touch the stone to see if you are the chosen one. He was about to reply to her impertinence, but he was now standing close enough to the red haired man to sense him. An immortal like himself! It may be of my concern, since he and I share at least one common trait. As do even some of us also share, human. Why will you not touch the stone? Why would I want all that power over my fellow man? Power is a means to an end; the end of which is improving the status and welfare of those you rule. Power is not a means unto itself. And for one who knows your race so well and your culture, why do you treat me so coldly? As much as a Daoine could do, she became exasperated with Ardis. While she was conversing with another Male Daoine away from where the stone was, Ardis stepped forward and touched the stone. It was warm and alive! It felt like living flesh in his hands! It rumbled aloud as Ardis felt its tremor through the ground…..it did so two more times then was silent. The glade was silent. So were the Daoine and the other Chieftains. The red haired man strode up to the stone and placed his hands on it. It glowed red for a moment, then what seemed like a bolt of lightning erupted from it, casting him on the ground. The man's expression was terrible to behold as he first glared at the Daoine, then at Ardis. His green eyes were almost luminescent. Ardis did not care about the stones rumbling. He knew an enemy when he saw one though. Both of his hands went to his sword hilt as he prepared to draw. Stay your hand, Ardis. There will be no battle here. The Stone has spoken. You now speak for all of us. The snow-haired female proffered a silver half-circlet towards Ardis. So shall you wear this as a mark of your status amongst the Celtic tribes. How are you addressed? I am …Ardis…that is all. Have you no clan name or surname? None that I use. My tribe knows who I am. Why should I have more than Ardis? It suits me well. It is a common sort of designation, though, she said. You are no longer so common. My tribe is called Ap Anon; of Clan Anon. ArdisAnon would be my full name I suppose. The Daoine turned to the group. All hail ArdisAnon, King of the Celtic Tribes! The sound of the cheering was deafening. What he actually had not wanted or needed now was his. Even the red haired one was cheering though. Ardis had not forgotten his look of malevolence before…._


	15. Chapter 14

…_He now lived in Tara Hill with Blaenwys and his entourage. A warrior of his, Griogal, had been made chieftain of his tribe. It had not been long after his crowning that the red haired man showed up…with many others like him…all immortal. Ardis was wary, but they seemed to come in good faith. The one who was their chieftain also wanted the circlet he wore, but he realized that was not to be. You and I, ArdisAnon, we are alike in at least one way. The Daoine do not like us__ but they seem to get along with you. There is no need for you and our clan to fight; let us make our peace here and now for all present. The older one was Sardicus. His clan was of Ap Hwywd. Others of his clan introduced themselves. There was Dougal and Dhurgal, Clydweth and Cleranagh, more than he could remember…all immortals. He thought this odd at the time, but dismissed it. There were many things he dismissed at that time; some he only recalled when it had been too late…_

…_..he had etched a rune onto the silver half-circlet he was given. That was all. It weighed ponderous enough on his head at times. And it seemed that the Daoine were less and less observed…_

The screech of the train brakes woke him out of his reverie. Brother Timothy stretched and yawned, not fully recovered from his past exertions. He departed the train as quickly as possible. This place simply bustled with people! It was just after the noon hour, so many were out for lunch or a stroll. He had already discovered that you used a phone directory to find people. He had no intention of announcing his presence though; at least not in such a direct way. He tried the last two numbers on his list again. The first one was also a dud, but the second one was pay dirt. The woman had a nice sounding voice, and she described the pendant exactly. He made a large circle around the address after stating he would be glad to return the item he had in his possession. It took a lot of effort to make his voice sound pleasant, but it had paid off. _Now we shall see what there is to be seen. _His soft laugh was not pleasant.

Lyonal lounged against the doorway of the building, the sack at his feet. He looked at his watch; ten minutes past the designated meeting time, but he could understand delays. He just wanted to be shut of this business once and for all. _Bright red hair and sneak thievery do not go well together,_ he thought. Better to have Amanda's generic brown hair. There was nothing he could do about genes, though. Why had it come to this for him while Gwyneth had a boring but law-abiding line of work? He had no conscious idea, but unconsciously, he knew he was inherently lazy. She was not. He wanted the short path to riches; she took a more sedate approach. A car passed by his location followed by a tram and two other cars. A third car slowed down when it was near him and a window lowered. Lyonal had no idea why he jerked from his place against the door and ducked, but it saved his life. _Crack! Crack! Crack! _ Three steel crossbow quarrels chewed through and splintered the doorjamb. A fourth whizzed over his head. Lyonal scooped up the sack and fled through the doorway. He heard a screech of brakes but did not stop to see if he was being pursued. _This was not how it was supposed to work! They were trying to kill me! _ The specter of fear lent speed to his steps as he ducked and dodged through the back streets as adroitly as he ever would. Maybe a trip to Paris would be good for health reasons, perhaps HIS health! _What have I gotten myself involved in? What!_

Gwyneth looked up from her work with a start as Lyonal banged through the door, his face drained of color. Quickly he ran to her.

"Gwynnie, do you still have that place in Paris?"

"Yes I do, but—"

"I need to go there for a while. I am involved in something that is way over my head. They tried to kill me!" Lyonal was sobbing and close to tears.

Gwyneth was suddenly afraid. There would be time to chastise him later, but for now she made him tell her what was wrong. In fits and starts, he told her everything, from the confrontation in the alley to the most recent events. He was smart enough to leave out the death of the brother. He showed Gwyneth the items, but warned her not to touch the tomes. Her eyebrows rose upon seeing the Pontifex, but the silver half-circlet gave her a start. _I have never seen a rune like that before! _ She methodically called up her research, but that was no help. She did have a digital camera though. Quickly she took six pictures of the rune and uploaded them into her computer. Then she turned to Lyonal, a stern look in her eye.

"You had many options in the life you so far have had, but now it has led to this!" She slapped him as hard as she could. "But no, you couldn't be satisfied with picking pockets, could you? Instead, what you have here are some dangerous items, one of which is covered in dried blood! And who is to say they won't come looking here next? I just got a call from a gentleman who says he found a pendant of yours. He said he will be over here soon. What in hell have you done?" He looked chastised enough without any need of more rebuke so she left the last question to hang. "You are my cousin though, and as ashamed as I am to admit it, especially now, you are all I have. Here are the keys to the place in Paris and its address. "She shook her head. "As much as I would love to study that crown, I do not dare do so now, at least until you have your issue settled. Pack your things to go quickly, within the hour. And take these foul items with you! If I was of a better mind, I would turn you over to the police, but the ones after you have no fear or respect for the law!" Lyonal scurried about quickly doing what Gwyneth ordered. Within the hour, he kissed her on the cheek and bid his farewell. Gwyneth was right to have worried about him. His thieving ways had finally got him in trouble. _Was it in anyway my fault,_ she thought. She vehemently shook her head. No, she would take no blame for his problems. Maybe this would finally bring him up short…_or maybe dead!_ She refused to entertain that thought, though. Her mind turned to that rune on that piece of silver. She spent the next hour doing her best to decipher the rune, but to no avail. _What in hell do a cross and two books have in common with a rune on a silver half-circlet?_ She was worn out and felt like hell, but she knew sleep would be a worse hell. It had been bad enough to initially observe those cannibals, but now the viciousness of the dreams were of a whole new caliber. Slaughter without quarter wherever and whenever. Some times it was the brown-haired one with….._that half-circlet! That simply could not be!_ Other times it was a Monk or something like a monk. Or more of the red-haired ones. Yes, sleep would not be a respite for what assailed her, not at all…

Brother Timothy had found a place that would accept the plastic card he had and was enjoying a simple repast of beef stew and milk. He was hungry, but he also needed to kill some time. This place was pleasant enough, mostly a working class crowd. He was careful to hide the sword as best as he could when he sat down. There was no telling what reaction it would get. His garb called enough attention as it went.

"Well, look at the pervert Monk eating his stew and drinking.,..milk? A man this one is!" Brother Timothy looked up to see a stupid looking thug and two others. The one who spoke was of good size, but also a lot of fat. His two compatriots looked as stupid. All three seemed to be decked out in denim and excessive metal, most of it piercings. Brother Timothy went back to his stew, hoping that they would leave him be. It was not to be so. The three seated themselves uninvited at his table and glowered at him.

"Is that true, Ralph, that these perverts love poking altar boys in the ass?" All three laughed. "Why don't we ask this pervert? He is dressed as one!" The one named Ralph grabbed the monks arm. "You listening to us? We are talking to you. Don't you like young altar boys?"

Brother Timothy looked at the metal head holding his arm, then at his arm. "I am not looking for any trouble, gentlemen. I wish to eat my food in peace. Would you do me the favor of haranguing someone else? "As emphasis, he easily twisted his are out of Ralph's grasp and once again fell to his stew. In the idiot lexicon, this refusal to rise to their goading, and the casual way in which he brushed them off was a sign of a call to arms. The bigger fat one punched Brother Timothy in the chest, knocking him off the chair and onto the floor. The idiots smirked at each other, this blow seeming to prove their manhood. The Brother did not get up slowly and apologetically though. He moved like liquid steel. His right hand connected with the belly of the attacker, who lost their wind and staggered. Almost by reflex, he reached for the sword hilt that was protruding from his back. He only barely restrained himself from doing so. It had an interesting effect. The fat ones sidekicks both turned pale as wax and quickly backed away. The fat one stood erect again, his idiot features twisted in rage. Before anything else could happen though, the tavern keeper interceded. He may also have been rather rotund, but his demeanor meant business. In no short order, the idiots were escorted out of the place of business. The tavern keeper apologized to Brother Timothy, who was gracious about the matter, but it was not only the tavern keeper that was eyeing what Brother Timothy carried. He quickly adjusted the robes to hide the hilt. He had no further problems while he finished eating.

"You will do no such thing! You will stay hidden unless I say otherwise!" It was the fop who had saved Lyonal earlier, except he wore more modern clothes. His compatriot was clothed as well, but due to his size, they did not fit him well. They sat in the back of the car. Up front was a nondescript sort of driver. The two trusted him implicitly. "You are the one who couldn't aim a simple crossbow! Bother! Maybe something spooked him, but here is how the matter stands!" The giant grumbled something. "I don't care what you think." the fop replied. "Here is how it is. That fool managed to kill one of their Brothers. On purpose or by accident, I do not know. But in doing so, he alerted him. You don't think he would discover the thefts? Or immediately suspect us? Come on now! Let's be realistic. Maybe he didn't. But if he found the items missing, he will come after them. And what do you think will happen if he finds one of us? Maybe he will verbally admonish us?" The giant laughed at that comment. The fop struck him. "You know what will happen. You are a fool if you think you could face him in combat. He is not afraid of you and never was. Uncle will have to deal with him. And why should we risk ourselves when there are so many others who will do our work for us? Observe and possibly learn something." The fop got out of the car and started talking to some thug types on the street. A fistful of bank notes sealed the agreement. Soon they would have what they sought.

Brother Timothy watched the dwelling where his target allegedly lived. The street was lighted, but there were enough shadowy spots for him to hide. There was a light on inside of the dwelling, but there seemed to be no movement or anything else could he ascertain. _Hyvern._ That was a strange sort of name to have: maybe no more so than others, but something was bothering him. While he figured out how to approach this matter, a pencil and pad offered him an amusement of sorts. He almost giggled at the runes he was scrawling on the sheet. If you took English words and put them literally into runes, sometimes you could get funny results. Almost without thinking, he runed the name Hyvern. No, that was not quite right. He played with it some more. Hoaren. Hoarer….he had to stifle a laugh at that one. … …Hoverd. _Hwywd? _ That could not be! He was going to start over, but then he heard noise. A lot of noise.

Gwyneth heard the knock on her door. _Who could that be at this hour?_ She shook her head and got up from her chair. She had only just turned the doorknob when the door burst open. She was knocked onto the floor as three metal pierced and tattooed thugs burst into the house. There were more outside. She attempted to arise or shout for help, but a dirty hand was clamped over her mouth. Despite her struggles, she was tied down on her back on a table near her computer. While the one held his hand over her mouth, the other two began to ransack her place. Dishes broke and books were flung off the shelves in their search. The other two paused.

"It ain't here or we can't find it or some such. They didn't say she was such a looker, did they!" The speaker leered at Gwyneth as he rubbed his crotch.

The one holding Gwyneth rose slightly to view her. "She is, isn't she? They didn't say we couldn't, did they." His breath stank of cheap liquor and decay. Gwyneth did the only thing she could do. She bit into the hand over her mouth. As the thug pulled it away with a curse, she gathered her breath to scream. The thug backhanded her with enough force to make her head spin. Then he started ripping off her clothing. Soon, she was nude.

"Would ye look at that snatch? We gotta have some!"

"Shut up! We take care of business first." He looked over Gwyneth's body. She would be a prize; better than anything he could ever hope to get on his own, that is, without forcing the issue. "We have a little problem, my pretty one. Seems some man gave us some good money to retrieve some items from here. Perhaps you will tell us where they are and maybe we won't hurt ye….too much." He and the two others guffawed, but the lust in their eyes was baldly apparent."

"You can go to hell! I don't know of what you speak!." Gwyneth was afraid, but her ire was up. She struggled against her bonds as she spat in his face. He smiled and wiped the spittle away, but his smile was not a gentle one. He unzipped his jeans and reached in. His penis was already erect. "I think you will be telling us, before…or after!" He stopped her from squirming by grasping her hips, and then he positioned himself. He started to thrust forward, but his activity was interrupted by some shouts then screams from outside. Before he could reorient himself to his task, the front door again banged open. There was a robed figure standing there with one of his friends lolling from their left arm. The robed figure cast the corpse to the floor as they laughed.

The moment he heard the noise, Brother Timothy quickly oriented on the sound and as quickly moved into action. The pad and pen disappeared into his robe as he trotted across the street. He had replaced the boots with a pair of sandals so he would have more maneuverability. He made almost no sound as he closed in on the flat. As it went, his pursuit up until now had been fractured by various thoughts, but this close to his goal, his pursuit was monomaniacal. There were two coarsely dressed thugs hanging around by the doorway. They might have lived if they had backed off, but that was not in their nature. The first reached into a jacket pocket and brought out a pistol, but the underestimated the speed of their assailant. Brother Timothy moved in close and smashed his left fist into their face. Bone cracked and a scream was choked off in a gurgle of blood as the first attacker fell. The second thug waded in with a stick tipped with metal. Brother Timothy took the first blow at full force, but the robe plus a weight shift lessened the blow. He backhanded the thug out of his way as he headed towards the door. The thug yelled out before they next attacked with a knife. It did them no good. Their knife hand was crushed in an armored grip as another hand snaked in and fastened upon their neck. In seconds, the second thug was also dead, their neck broken. The knife clattered to the ground, unnoticed by Brother Timothy.

He only remembered to let go of the corpse when he was inside. He observed the wreckage of the unit as well as his target and three other potential threats. He laughed at the spectacle, and then his foot connected with the thug on top of the woman.

The thug on top of Gwyneth had no time to react. All he saw was a flash of brown, then stars. Where he had just been about to have his way with this redhead, he lay now on the floor holding his side. It felt like some ribs were broken, or at least bruised, but the vision of his dead friend in that guys hand also assailed him mentally He gasped as he tried to rise, then he finally did so. Oh, he was gonna have a grand old time with that bitch! After he was through with her fur, maybe he would put it up her ass as well. He would make her—_What the hell? _ There was some joker in a monk's robe. He could only see his mouth and chin because he was hooded. Their robe was covered in splotches of blood. The monk said not a word as he regarded them. One spoke fearfully.

"It's that bastard from the tavern! He kicked you! I think he killed Mitch and Lenny as well!"

"Kill the bastard! Why are you looking at him?" One of his friends pulled out a pistol. It was the last move he would make. The monk pulled out a small crossbow, almost ridiculous in size. It ratcheted like something that did not sound like a toy, though. The pistol wielding thug took a quarrel in the throat. He sank to the floor, his face going purple as an acrid stench smoked from the quarrel's entry point. The other thug got a quarrel in his eye. Both were dead in a heartbeat. The monk put the crossbow back in his pocket after retrieving the quarrels, then stalked over to him.

"We meet again, it seems. It looks like you are in a quandary now. You were asked to retrieve some items? Who told you to retrieve them? "The thug was in shock. His four friends were very dead. This monk or whatever he was paid that fact no mind; their voice didn't even sound angry. Then a lance of pain shot up his left hand. The monk had stepped on it with a sandaled foot and was putting a lot of weight upon the hand. He screamed, but it was cut off by a metal wrapped hand squeezing his throat. "I have no time for games, you filthy pig! Tell me, or you wind up with your friends!" The thug was no hero; within moments Brother Timothy knew what they knew." That's a good man." The monk patted the thug on the face as he took his foot off of their left hand. Before the thug could even recover from that, Brother Timothy's left hand grabbed their throat and snapped their neck. "That is what you earn for interference." With a look of disgust, the monk cast the body to the floor.

Gwyneth was also in shock. She had gone from sitting at her desk to nearly being raped. Now there were three corpses strewn around her dwelling and maybe more outside. She had resigned herself to being violated, but now things had drastically altered. That monk's left hand was covered in some sort of armor. He had kicked her would be rapist off of her with one blow and then she could only look in horror as he slaughtered her attackers. Those quarrels were _not_ regular quarrels; his crossbow seemed to be like a toy, but it wasn't a toy. She recognized the reek of an acid; the purple discoloration of the two thugs spoke of some poison. Then he had crushed the life from her third visible assailant in a moment's notice for as he said 'interfering'. She was by no means ungrateful, but why did she have a feeling of jumping into the fire from a frying pan?

Brother Timothy was as methodical as the thugs were destructive. He quickly searched the searched areas, but it was apparent the items were not here. Nor were any other persons present besides the dead; let alone one by the name of Lyonal. He paid no heed to the corpses. He had quickly converged on the apartment the moment he saw the thugs smash their way inside. The one had been in the process of violating the woman tied down on the table. Brother Timothy was no gallant knight anyway you looked at it, though. He did despise cowards of that sort; he looked upon any such as that with contempt. He searched the corpses to make sure they did not have the items as well. He looked at her bonds. _These bastards are no stranger to invasion robberies it seems._ That still left the question of where Lyonal was and where were the things that were stolen. There was a computing device on a desk along with a pile of papers and such. As Brother Timothy quickly leafed through them, one unifying thing stood out. Everything here was concerned with things Celtic. Pictures of runes were interspersed with writings and numerous photographs. He recognized many of the pictures, from Stonehenge to Temair; at least he thought it was Temair. There was more of the same on the device, but in addition there were numerous scholarly papers. This woman studied Celtic culture! "A scholar," he said aloud. Well, maybe a straightforward approach would work now. He pulled out the pendant and chain he had and set it on the desk. "Here is what I found. Now, where is he and where are the items he took?" He did not glance at Gwyneth as he spoke. He was rapidly going through the pictures she had stored on her PC.

"I have no idea of what you speak!" Her expression grew livid. "You will release me now or I will scream as loud as I can! " As emphasis, she inhaled and tensed her body. She just as quickly released her breath and went white with fear as she stared at a small but deadly crossbow pointed at her face. She could smell the acid stench from the quarrel loaded on it.

"You do so and you will be as dead as these others, milady. I think you do know of what I speak, though." He gestured to several pictures of her standing with a red haired male. "This is the one I am seeking. He committed a serious crime against my monastery and me. I intend to rectify it. "Brother Timothy continued to shuffle through the pictures on the computer. There were many pictures of menhirs and ancient sites here. She was thorough in her documentation of relatively recent Celtic culture. Then he saw pictures of jewelry and other such implements; pictures of bracelets and necklaces were interspersed with weapons and armor. There were six pictures of a silver half-circlet. Brother Timothy froze for a moment. "There are pictures of you together with him. And these pictures are even more interesting. They seem very recent, too, judging by this date. They were taken TODAY!" His gaze pierced through her. Gwyneth struggled against her bonds, but it was of no avail. He had put away the crossbow, but she saw where it had gone. She flinched as his hand began to caress part of her hair. "What is your name? Are you also Hyvern? His wife or sister perhaps?"

"He is my cousin. And yes, my name is also Hyvern. Gwyneth Hyvern. Stop that this instant! Release me from my bonds!"

"Where are the items that he stole!" Brother Timothy ignored her request, because something else suddenly interested him. He took out the pad on which he had used for the runes. He noticed that the door to this place was slightly ajar. He walked over, closed and locked it before sitting back down to once again study the runes he had made earlier. He found a tracing program that could draw like he did with pen and paper. Once more he converted her last name to runes and began to study them closer.

She did not know what to think. Whoever this was, he showed no interest in her nudity. They were very interested in what she had on her computer, though. She could only partially see what he was doing, but it was apparent he seemed to know what he was doing. While he was searching for whatever, she heard him mumble in Gaelic as well as Celtic speech. She had noticed another startling feature of this person when they had returned to sit after shutting her door. A pommel and hilt of what had to be a massive sword jutted up over their back. She may have laughed at the sword at another time, but no one sane would have done so after seeing that crossbow. Those thugs may have been dangerous in a brutish way, but this person was simply…dangerous. _Was he even sane?_ He sure seemed to function sanely, even if he was murderous. She had decided that it was pointless to scream; she had no doubt he would make good on his promise. The nerve of him stroking her hair as if they were lovers, though! She would have slapped him had she been able. She heard her chair move and she glanced at the sound. The monk was getting up slowly and purposefully. She glanced at a page of runic renderings on her screen, and then she made the mistake of looking at the monk. His hood had fallen back and his visage looked like death incarnate and he was glaring at her. He mouthed a string of Celtic in an icy tone, rising to almost a scream. _I did not understand a word of that! _ She was supposed to be knowledgeable in that vein as well. She nearly wet herself with fear. _Maybe it is my death I see!_

Four times he had riffled through all possible declensions and misspellings of that name. The end result of elimination stared at him from the screen in all its glorious obscenity. Under his end result, he had scribed another name in runes, one burned into his memory. If a language shift was taken into account, he was correct. _She has their red hair and blue eyes, is she one of them?_ What reasoning he was using became clouded by a haze of red rage. _The theft was not happenstance. It was deliberate! _In his mind, he perceived seas of blood and slaughter…..

Red rage clouded all thought from his mind. Without even thinking about it, he had reverted to the first language in which he had become literate. "Where is your cousin and where are my possessions, Ap Hwywd! I will kill you all no matter where I have to go!" He struck her across the face with his right hand for emphasis. Then his right hand dug deeply into her breast as he squeezed with near full force. She was near tears now. That slap had hurt much more then when the thug had struck her. Her breast fired hot jolts of pain through her whole body from its violation. This monk was not as tall as the thug, but was much stronger. With an effort, Brother Timothy switched to a modern dialect. "You have already lied to me about your name. You and yours anglicized it to escape detection, but you did not go far enough. You will tell me one way or another, milady. Violation of your womanhood is the least of your worries now!" His armored hand came down between her legs. Gwyneth started to scream at the pain, but her scream was cut to a gurgle as his right hand closed around her throat. She wet herself at this point, petrified as she was with fear. He was shaking her by the throat and screaming at her in that language_….in Celtic!_ Her mind stored this incongruity as she felt the edges of blackness close in on her consciousness…..

It took a great effort not to crush the life from this one. The smell of urine assaulted his nostrils. She had urinated on the table. He released his hold on her throat and waited…

Gwyneth came back to awareness. Her face and the area between her legs ached from their abuse. _I am still alive, but for how long? If this was what was after Lyonal, no wonder he was fearful! I urinated on a table for gods sakes!_ She got no respite the moment her eyes focused on him. He grabbed a good amount of hair on her head, but it was not to caress it. He wrapped it around his hand like rope and pulled on it hard enough so that she gasped. "Where did he go? You will tell me one way or another, Ap Hwywd."

"My last name is Hyvern! I do not understand most all of what you said to me, either! "She sobbed.

He switched to English, "You or someone else anglicized your last name. It was Ap Hwywd. The clan of Ap Hwywd."

_Clan?_ Maybe this monk was insane. There had been no clans in Wales for centuries, perhaps longer. 'Ap' meant 'son of' anyways; it had nothing to do with a clan. She looked at him and sneered. "There are no more clans, not since the uprising of Gwynedd was put down at least. Let me go! You have shamed me enough! "

"Shamed you? I have not even started to shame you yet, as you call it. You and those related to you cost me more than you will ever know. Shall I show you how I was 'shamed?' " Brother Timothy had had enough. He found a pair of scissors and released Gwyneth from her bonds. She scrambled off the table as fast as she could, but not fast enough. He pitched her into a wall. As she collapsed to the ground, he raised her by a fistful of hair until their eyes were level. Blood trickled from her nose and mouth "And I suppose next you will say you do not know who I am? You are in essence correct regarding the clans, but there was a time when clans were more important than family. Maybe at some point you will tell your compatriots as much. For now, though, you will be telling me about your cousin and where he is. And maybe where the others in your clan are? The ones still alive?" He could see some stubbornness in her eyes still.

She spat in his face. "Why? So you can murder him too? Like these three? Like me, after you have got what you wanted?"

He spun her around and smashed her body into the floor. He did this twice more, the last as hard as he could. Her whole face was smeared with blood and mucus now, hair completely disheveled. "You really think this is slaughter, milady?" He pulled her close. "Your idiot cousin stole from me; you have no idea what he has done. And he had no reason to kill my fellow Brother in the Monastery! None! What he stole will assuredly provoke a slaughter of which you can only dream!"

She was silent and only partially aware of her surroundings, but she spoke. "He never told me of any murder! And I do dream of slaughter." She started weeping, the tears making runnels through the blood. Brother Timothy levered her up and back by her hair so that she was arched backwards as far as she could safely go.

_He does not ev__en care that I am a woman! There is no lust in his eyes! _Once again, she urinated on herself; it cascaded down her legs to the rug. His pressure on her head hair was painful and relentless as he pulled down on it, forcing her back. She slapped at him with her right hand; in return, his armor-clad left hand smashed into her stomach. A stream of bile flew out of her mouth as she turned red and gasped for air. Then the clad hand began to crush her face in a show of brute strength. "Please, no more! I will tell you everything he told me!" Despite this, he did not let go of her hair, so as coherently as possible considering the circumstances, Gwyneth told him what she knew. He cursed a foul oath when she got to the description of the fop and the giant. Afterwards, he threw her to the floor where she simply fell to weeping.

"And you do not know me or these others that approached him?" At her silence, he jerked her head erect by her hair.

"No I don't!" she almost wailed. She was nearly at the edge of breaking down. Her whole body ached. She had never, ever suffered this sort of physical abuse in her life. She should hate this one for beating her so; hate him with all the core of her being. For some reason though, she didn't. There was no doubt she was in fear of him, though. She had consigned her cousin to death, and maybe herself as well. What she felt at the moment was pushed to the back of her mind as she looked at the sword hilt. Those runes were rather archaic, but readable. Accepted. Warrior. Chieftain. She could read most of what was on her computer screen as well, except for the last line. Those runes looked strange; could it be that they were simply even more descriptive. She could not concentrate though due to the beating she had suffered. She staggered a bit when he painfully yanked her to her feet then released her. She covered herself with her hands as she stood before him, ignoring the futility of the gesture.

"Get cleaned up. We are going to find your cousin. Maybe we will encounter some of your relatives as well. I look forward to meeting Dougal and Dhurgal again." His smile was bereft of any kindness. He ignored her as she stumbled into the bathroom. She was really no threat to him. _But they are….this will be finished, one way or another, whether I get those items back or not. _He heard the shower running as he thought about something else of import. _Are any of my friends still alive, or do I fight them alone?_


	16. Chapter 15

The fop's name was Dougal Ap Hwywd. His companion was Dhurgal. Dougal was of a very pragmatic nature. He hired those three to retrieve the artifacts. He hired a young snotnose to watch them do so. He paid off the snotnose as promised; his pallor at describing what he had seen would be enough to keep him silent. Dougal knew that the thugs would never return. "We will have to make other plans, Dhurgal, that is all. Lyonal somehow fled after our first attempt was not successful. He probably has the items with him."

Dhurgal was only really conversant in Olden-Tongue; he had not wanted or bothered to learn any other sort of communication other than that and his fists. "Was that who we think it was?"

"What do you think, brother? He killed those idiots with ease. Maybe he even raped poor Gwyneth. Either way, he has the information he seeks. A shame that we can not follow him, though, but I know where he will probably head. We have to be here to keep track of some other things. That Laskey fellow, for one; we have to make sure he toes the line."

"How do we get those items, then?"

"Have you forgotten your dear cousin Bronwyn? She is now up and about in Paris. She may be of some use. I will have to contact those who are tending to her needs. She also needs to be warned about him." His expression was at once grim and worried.

"Why do you fret over one man? That is all he is, one puny little man, brother." Dhurgal chuckled at his statement.

Dougal slapped his brother hard. "In case you do not recall, we were raping and killing his queen at the time he came to our clan house. The few who did escape were lucky. He and those guards slaughtered the rest. Near 100 of us dwelt there; only 8 of us escaped. He killed at least sixty, and most were armed. Every time you clashed swords with him, he bested you, not by the sword he forged, but also by his skill. We must gather our numbers together to be successful in this venture. Even you should now realize this." Dougal bade the driver to leave where they were parked. He had a call to make.

Once all the dirt had been removed and she had neatened herself, one thing was evident: Bronwyn Ap Hwywd was stunningly beautiful. She had fiery red hair, green eyes that almost glowed with color, and a complexion of cream without a blemish. It was only upon gazing into the eyes that you could see the insanity that lay there. Her incisors were all sharpened to points as well. She was sated regarding food, but what she wanted was _food._ She must be patient, though. These mortals looked upon _food _as a repugnant thing. Some would even have killed her for eating _food._ One had seriously tried in the past. Had it not been for her guards, they would have succeeded. She would have taken his head, but even as he slumped forward in death, he was forcibly re-animating himself. She had quickly been brought up to speed on many things. The rules of this society had changed a lot, yet not so much. Most of the people were much cleaner at least. She despised dirt and filth. One of her caretakers brought a device to her and told her how to use it. Though he was of her kind regarding immortality, the caretaker's serious lack of time spent as an immortal placed Bronwyn above him and all the rest present here regarding experience. She spoke into the device.

"Hello?"

"Bronwyn, how are you doing? It has been such a long time!"

"Dougal? Is that you? "

"Yes, it is. We can catch up on things at a later date. At the moment, though, we have a problem that needs to be addressed." He explained in detail the way to resolve it for the most part. "Also, take heed and be wary. A certain enemy of ours may be about. If he were to die, this matter would be much less urgent."

"I will not lose a chance if it is offered, Dougal. You can count on me."

"I had hoped so. You and I are the only ones besides Sardicus who can think. I am not sure where Clwdweth is, though. I doubt she has recovered fully from her injuries. Do as you see fit in pursuing those items."

"What about Taeg? Can he help us?"

"Oh, god no! That is the last thing we need! It is only half decent in a fight; not for any cerebral tasks. Keep me posted as to your progress." The line went dead.

Bronwyn stared at the device for a moment. Such a wondrous thing this was! But there was work now to be done. With no further delay, she organized those available to her. Soon, she would know what she needed to accomplish the needed task. Then there would be _food!_

Gwyneth did not look too battered after a shower, but she complained of weariness. Brother Timothy would hear none of it: she could sleep while they traveled to their destination. He knew there was no time to waste; if his enemies got ahold of the books, it would be all out war. If that were to be, he would be at a severe disadvantage in numbers. At times there were others who had helped, but he had only the vaguest idea where they might be located. _If my enemies are like they were before, they have probably already found one another and are gathering their forces._ He simply would have to get the items back before they did. If they got in the way…he smiled for a second when he considered that. The part of him that wished to avoid conflict unless necessary was fading fast as he ruminated upon the issues facing him. Maybe it was the murder, maybe it was a combination of many things; he would simply have to play the cards where and when they fell. Gwyneth was ready to leave, but before they left, he emphasized some last statements with a hand on her throat. "If you flee, I will hunt you down and kill you. If you are one of them versus what your cousin is, I will also find you and kill you. Your clan has caused me enough grief and trouble and even NOW they still do. Do you understand me?" She nodded in mute acquiescence, her blue eyes wide in fear. She would put up no more struggle; things were now beyond her control. _Were they ever under control,_ she thought. At one time they were, but not so now. As weary as she was from her beating and the stress, she only hoped that no more dreams would occur. She was not optimistic on that count….

They left Wales and England behind as they went through the Chunnel. On the other end, Brother Timothy bought two tickets to Paris; he made Gwyneth pay in cash for them. She was required to show ID to board the train, but no one in their right mind would demand such of a Brother in monastic garb, even in this day and age. Soon they were seated for the ride. Shortly after they left, Gwyneth fell into deep slumber, leaving Brother Timothy awake. He looked at her sleeping form. _Had I been anyone else anywhere, I would have tried to win her heart._ But instead, I had to beat information out of her. He was at the same time appalled at his brutality as he realized there was no time for stubbornness. A few wisps of her red hair fluttered around her as she slept, but soon her body jerked and shifted ever so slightly as her eyes moved under her lids. _What are you dreaming about, Gwyneth? What thoughts go through your head?_ He almost reached out and stroked her face; it was odd how the bruises were almost gone from her visage. He stopped his hand short. There would be no rest, no respite, and no peace for him. The last thing he wanted to do was to care for one of _them! _ Why was he so concerned about how he had treated this Ap Hwywd? Maybe things would have turned out differently if he had…..no way. If it came down to it, he would resolve this issue himself or die trying. His mind drifted away yet again; he had way too many memories…

_Damnit! Where in hell was Amanda?_ Duncan was no longer amused. He slammed down the phone in frustration. Here it was near three in the morning, and he was awake pacing the floor. He had only just jerked awake from one hell of a dream. It was that monk again. He remembered two in monastic garb; Darius was dead, killed by rogue watchers. The other he had killed himself; that one had haunted his dreams as a silent monk. This was a different individual, though, he knew it. This monk was practicing with the sword he carried. It was black in color, like raw iron. No, it was darker than iron. He could tell it had to be massive simply by its length. This monk was swinging it as easy as a child would swing a toy, though. He wore no readily visible armor, but there was something on his left arm under the robe that was metallic. Then the scene abruptly shifted. Now a monk was in a study somewhere, seated at a desk and writing something. He seemed like an observer as he drifted over to where the monk was. They were definitely writing something, but it was in some strange language Duncan did not know. It was not English or Latin. It was runes it seemed. Pagan runes. _A monk writing in runes?_ What ever they were doing, they had finished and had closed the book. A hasp on the book locked it. The monk replaced it in a drawer of a desk then locked the desk. The monk's hood was fully up, blocking most of his features, but Duncan seemed to think this was the same monk as before. The scene shifted again. A monk was digging graves; freshly filled ones could be seen as far as his eyes could see. The monk was grieving as he filled the grave with a body black with plague. _Had he dug all those graves? What was the point of all this?" _ The scene switched once more. Now it showed a monk bowed before a gravestone in silent prayer. He seemed to be the only one present. The monk slowly arose, head turning in every direction. With no warning, they were upon him. _Three people attacking a monk on holy ground?_ The monk did not hesitate. He ducked around a gravestone to evade a blow, and then pulled out a sword. _The sword that I saw before! But this is holy ground! _ His experience told him that this monk was immortal as well. He met his attackers blow for blow. Whatever that sword was made of, it was not iron. It shattered a steel sword when the monk struck a mighty blow…the monk was screaming something in a pagan tongue…. That was when he had awaked. Duncan could simply not make sense of the dream! Battling on holy ground was forbidden! That's what the rules had stated! _We found no references to the rules before sometime in the 1200s._ Had there been a time when it was different? Christianity had been around for almost 2000 years; it was well established, even amongst his own kind. Amanda was a lot older than he was. Maybe she could tell him if things had been different before. What still nagged him though was who that monk was. He lay down and tried to fall asleep again, but what rest he got was fitful at best….

At least one other would gladly have traded his dream for hers. Even in utter weariness, they washed over Gwyneth like a flood, drowning her in its horror….

….._the place was a charnel house. The warriors had lost their initial shock when their crowned leader had killed the woman cannibal. But she had given the alarm. Seeming hordes of red haired people stormed out of the dwelling, murder in their green eyes and weapons in hand. Some of the warriors fell under the onslaught, but not all. Their leader was in front, covered in gore, screaming out a battle song. It was Celtic, but a duotonal sing-song dialect. Any that attacked him were cut down, man woman, or child. They battered their way into the dwelling. Bits and pieces of human bodies littered the halls. Blood was everywhere; some dried, some not. From room to room the warriors went, killing in an orgy of violence that nearly made her vomit. At times a bluish colored lightning would crackle around a slaughtered red haired entity; the lightning seemed to flow into the leader with the half circlet. There were even pieces of something that did not look human, almost elf-like…..soon only the leader and one other were upright, the others of his retinue had fallen. He was in a great hall of sorts filled with human offal and body parts. He faced a woman who was beautiful in appearance, but her face was smeared in blood. The warrior stalked towards her with sword upraised. It was strange that he had not a mark on his body. His path was blocked by four guards. One of them looked almost frail, but with an unearthly beauty. An Elf? There had never been any hard evidence of their existence; folk tales would not make a thesis. The elf and the other three simultaneously attacked the leader. He killed one, then another. He had taken a sword cut in the chest, but as she watched, it healed before her very eyes! That was not possible! As he battled the other two that were left, more red haired ones emerged. As one they all attacked the leader of the invading retinue. As hard as he had fought, he finally fell as well. The hall was filled with corpses though, including the elf and the last guard. The ones still alive were all wounded to various degrees. The red haired woman picked up a sword and went to the pile, but blue lightning crackled from the carnage and struck her with enough force to throw her backwards. With a snarl, the leader erupted from the pile of corpses, body once again whole. He chopped apart anything he saw still moving. He glared at the woman, but she turned and fled. He charged out after her, only to see her being pulled onto a horse as it galloped off. He screamed a curse in that sing-song Celtic at the retreating figures. Why was this necessary! She screamed at the figure. He could not hear her though…..then the leader was at several graves. He wept copiously over one of them. Many watched as he knelt there. Many were also weeping. Some looked sorrowful. There were several elves there as well. Their looks were as grim as stone as they as one glowered at the leader. The sunny day filled with grey storm clouds. …now the leader was leaving the area. The rain poured down, but they ignored it. They no longer wore their sign of authority. They held it in their hand. They trudged away into the downpour, sword on their back, circlet in hand, looking as if defeated. He stopped for a moment and turned around, as if looking for something. It seemed for a moment he was looking at her! He turned around and once again headed away from that place, shoulders slumped. She did not know at this time, but she was weeping as well…._

**Tara Hill ca. 3500 B.C.E.**

…_.he had been King of kings for a long time...No one seemed to mind still that he did not age or die. The Daoine lived longer than humans, but still they passed on. They did not breed as well as humans, though. Maybe that was why there appeared to be less of them around. He brushed that aside for the moment. There were matters to be addressed. Disturbing matters. Children were disappearing, both Daoine and Human. No one had any idea where they had gone. Searching had proved fruitless. Ardisanon had to figure out why this was happening. Maybe it was the Picts? The children were disappearing from settled areas. Any Pict raiding party would have been decimated. Also to consider was the fact that they had been pushed off of this isle and way north on the other. Clan rivalries? Also not likely. He had authority over the clans and all their people, not just on the islands, but on the big land as well. He may have been King of Kings, but he did not consider this an excuse to be so above his subjects he did not listen. He had established that any of his subjects could air their grievance to him if they felt their chieftain had not addressed this properly. In all this time, that had rarely occurred, though. Ardisanon had no tolerance for plotters like Clydwnn amongst the Druids. Once he had used his sword a few times to alleviate that problem, the priests had gotten a clue. Chieftainship had even ceased to be hereditary under his rule; the son had to earn the right. There was one Chieftain who was a woman, even. If any sort of feud had erupted, he would have known about it. Another thing that bothered him was the Ap Hwywd's. He had no problem accessing the other clan houses. Whenever he asked to visit theirs though, there was always some excuse. If it was not someone being ill, it would be numerous other such trifles. They were more than willing to visit his dwelling area though at Temair. They all were eerily the same looking it seemed. They were a mix of mortals and immortals. Almost without exception, the immortals were red-haired and green-eyed. The mortal ones lacked the green eyes, but not the hair. There were also a lot of them, a further reason he did not push the matter regarding their clan house. Blaenwys seemed content in her role as queen. Ardisanon was also content. It was perhaps due to the Ap Hwywds or maybe other factors, but he had not seen any other immortals for a long time. There was what amounted to a truce between him and Ap Hwywd. There would be no hostilities between them. It was one day when he heard two guards joking amongst themselves. He did not catch all the conversation, but he had caught the gist of it. Apparently, an Ap Hwywd that had been about to give birth had left their clan house and wandered off to a forested glade. She had given birth, but left the child in swaddling clothes. They swore that later they had seen the new born brought back to their clan house by yet another Ap Hwywd. Later, he called the two over to him and asked of what they spoke earlier. When they shuffled their feet, he asked again more stridently. At last they had told him what they had observed. By their description, it had been Cleranagh that had left pregnant and a blue eyed Ap Hwywd that had returned. She was immortal though! We do not sire children! We never have! He first swore the two to silence. Are there any others of theirs pregnant? Green eyed ones? We are not sure, they replied, but there is always someone pregnant there. I never seem to be able to visit there, but you seem to not have that problem. I want to know if any other of the __green eyed ones become pregnant. If you see such a thing, you will tell me straight away. A reward will be yours for this information._

…_..One of the warriors hesitantly approached him while he was in council. Ardis excused himself. Where is your companion? He noticed that the warrior had been crying. They killed him but I managed to escape. I watched a green eyed Ap Hwywd give birth again. She had green eyes, I swear. The older one of the clan killed my friend. They were going to do the same to me, but he told me to take a message to you. Stay out of our business or our truce will be ended! He had rewarded the warrior as he had promised, but this was disturbing indeed. A Clan defying the King of Kings? But more so, an IMMORTAL having children?_

…_.He was holding court on a mild summer's eve when his world he had built for himself had collapsed. The issues at hand were mostly minor, a tithe here, livestock there. Ever since that warrior had returned with the message, he had noticed that the Ap Hwywd's were as stand offish as the Daoine were. Sardicus Ap Hwywd was here with his nephew Dhurgal; they both regarded him with cool expressions. There had been other disappearances of children as of late, but still no answers. Then a woman's shrill scream approached the area, increasing in volume. With no bow of greeting, or any preamble, a disheveled commonly dressed woman nearly ran to ArdisAnon's seat. His guards moved to restrain her; her expression was both terrified and wild looking, but ArdisAnon raised his hand. She clutched in her hand a piece of clothing soaked in blood. She held it like a sack; as if it contained something. Behind her, four men carried a hide stretched between them. A common dressed man lay there grievously injured and moaning in pain. Speak, woman! Who has injured this man so, and what is it you carry in that bloody rag? She wept, but in her eyes was an almost insane rage. He is my husband, felled while coming across one who did this to my SON! She cast down the rag and it fell open. A young boy was there. Rather, pieces of him were. He was dead, but he was not all there, either. ArdisAnon saw a head, an arm, the genitals, a leg. It looked like that an animal had gnawed the leg. What animal has attacked your son and husband? We will see to it that it is slaughtered for its savagery. You will, will you? What if my husband told you it was not an animal that did this, no wolf or bear, but a human? He looked askance at the woman. That was an abomination! Humans eating humans! What you speak of is an abomination, if it were even true, woman! Get some sense into your head now! She whirled on her husband. You tell him what you saw! Tell him now! The man was in a bad way; red froth appeared on his lips, but he was far from gone. A female from a clan was eating him, she was. I saw that he was dead, but when I went after her with my cudgel, she and others attacked me. What clan? They are probably all like that; that's where all the missing children are! WHAT CLAN! His voice was loud. The wounded man pointed at….the Ap Hwywd's! They are the ones with the clan house that reeks of charnel….of death! The man fell back on the fur, his strength spent. ArdisAnon looked at the Hwywd's present. Sardicus looked grim. Dhurgal was no where to be seen. Another Ap Hwywd's mouth was open. All their incisors seemed to be points….they closed their mouth. Then Sardicus spoke. You have no right to accuse us as you do for a crime we only have committed in your head! He stalked forward and slapped the woman to the ground. He drew his sword to strike the woman, but another sword blocked his blow. The blocking sword was darker than iron. ArdisAnon glared at Sardicus, his visage horrible to behold. Sardicus attempted another blow, but a body bash from the King knocked him rudely to the ground. He scrambled up from the ground in fury, but ArdisAnon had not sheathed his sword. I am the king here! You dare transgress my authority. Ap Hwywd? Are you now going to make even more threats? He helped the woman up from the ground, but she shook free of him. YOU COULD HAVE PREVENTED THIS! She screamed in fury. BUT YOU DID NOT DO ALL YOU COULD TO STOP THIS! THEY KILLED AND ATE MY CHILD! YOU ARE IN PART TO BLAME FOR FAILING TO SEE THROUGH THEIR EYES AND SEE WHAT ABOMINATIONS THEY ALL ARE! Her gaze was baleful as she stared at Sardicus. IF THERE IS ANY JUSTICE AT ALL LEFT HERE, I DEMAND IT! In the name of Ceridwen and Morvran, in the name of the Daoine Na Sidhe, I DEMAND KING"S JUSTICE! She ran to her husband to comfort him in his last moments, weeping uncontrollably. ArdisAnon was in shock. He looked over at the Daoine, but their expressions were inscrutable. The guards looked at the weeping woman and then at their king. She did not mean what she said, one of them stated. She has no right to invoke such an onerous thing, said another. Soon, the voices were a small rumbling that grew louder and louder by the moment. SILENCE! He roared. She has the right, or what laws I have decreed are of no consequence. Is that not so, Daoine? The ones present nodded. Then he addressed Sardicus. You will have until sunrise tomorrow to prove you are innocent of these charges. If you do not appear, I and my guards will come to you. _

_We had a truce with you….to live in peace! Will you now sunder that over some common woman's accusation? You have no right to judge us or anyone! I should have been King of Kings, not you! Sardicus' countenance was pure venom. _

_With the crown they gave to me, there come responsibilities I never thought I would have to address. King's Justice has been demanded; it is probably the most onerous of them all, and it will be carried out, regardless of any truce we had forged. Sunrise tomorrow, Ap __Hwywd; if this results in our truce being broken, so be it….._

…_he had left at sunrise as promised with ten guards in tow. The woman's husband had died in the night. Eight others he ordered to guard Blaenwys. Wield your sword, my queen, for their failure to show here proves their guilt. If you strike, strike to kill. Oh Blaenwys, sweet Blaenwys, why could I not protect you…he was also unknowingly weeping as he remembered…._

…_.He and one other had been the only one to return; the others were dead. He had set their charnel besotted clan house ablaze. But all was carnage at Tara when he returned. Bodies were everywhere. The woman who had demanded King's Justice. Several Daoine. The eight guards he had left. And Blaenwys. She had heeded his words. Dead Ap Hwywds were there; two had been decapitated. She was as well, though. Her womanhood was a bloody, mangled ruin. It looked as if they had not let her die easy…..everywhere he looked, blood, carnage, slaughter. Upon seeing his queen's corpse, something in him had died that very moment. Despite his crown, he had helped lay the dead to rest. He had buried Blaenwys himself, weeping all the while. He found out that Dougal and Sardicus had violated her, while Dhurgal looked on. Not many had escaped from their clan house, though….._

…_..The morning dawned cold and rainy. It did much to wash away the blood that had stained the area, but not the sorrow. Despite that, he knew what would have to be done. And so, on his dais that comprised all he desired as a throne….._

"_For the crime of murder and cannibalism, so shall the Clan of Ap Hwywd be forever banished. But for the rape and murder of the queen, so shall the penalty be DEATH!"_

_The Druids had marked the vellum with his decree. All now should be done. What Daoine were there though looked upon him with contempt and anger as best as they could. ArdisAnon glowered back and yelled, "And what grievance do you have against me so that you will not speak? Has their not been enough sorrow and ruin here without your speechless accusations?" The Snow–Haired female who had originally given Ardis his crown showed no signs of age. Her name was Ker'arollen: she stepped forth to speak for all Daoine present and to answer Ardis' statement._

"_The King's Justice is an onerous thing. We have considered the words of the woman who spoke. She spoke more while you were gone." Her gaze was not only anger now, but sorrow. "This place is now corrupted and destroyed because of their crimes. We may no longer remain here. We hold you in part responsible for this deed. Had you confronted them early on and the foul beings they harbored, this tragedy may have been averted. As we, or what is left of us must now go, so shall you be banished from here until your decree is fulfilled. There are those you know of as guilty, but also those you do not know. You must find them all and destroy them as you promised." Her eyes glowed with an inner fire as she raised her hands to the heavens….a blast of lightning shattered the chairs which he and Blaenwys had held for near 500 years…..more and more lightning cascaded from the sky, smashing menhirs, blasting the ground. In a voice that seemed to come from her as well as from the heavens, it thundered through his being…." GO FROM HERE UNTIL AS SUCH TIME ARRIVES THAT YOU WILL CLEANSE THE FOULING OF OUR HOME !"_

…_..the storm had driven him from there in its fury. He was numb in his grief, though. He had removed his half-circlet and carried it in his hand as he walked from there in a drenching rain…something made him stop for a moment and turn around, but it had been a trick on his ears. No one was there. He was once again alone, but bereft of all he once had…it hurt far more this time…_

Brother Timothy only became aware this time in degrees. He stretched and looked out the window. It looked like mid-afternoon outside. They must be close to their destination. It was only then he realized his cheeks were moist. With an angry gesture, he scrubbed it off his face. Of all the memories he had ever retained, that one still made him mourn to excess. _Had he really loved? Could his kind ever really love? _ _I am NOT a Daoine_, he screamed in his head at that thought. As best as he could, he had grown to love her. She had taught him how to read stains and associate them with pictures. Maybe he had power before they met, but she had given him even more power. The power to detect filthy druid tricks. _The power to read some things that humans never had the access to read._ A good number of his tomes were in Olden-Tongue. A modern individual might see them as Celtic, but not really be able to read them. _Ashes to ashes, dust to dust._ It still felt like a raw wound, even after all this time. Would it ever cease to make him weep? It was then that he heard the sound of more weeping. He turned to the woman seated beside him. Her eyes were closed in sleep, but her cheeks were wet. _I never would believe that kind cried,_ he thought. Well, if she was shedding tears, it was not for him or any other of humankind. They probably were for those of her kind. He looked away from her in contempt. _Red hair and blue eyes. _Those in their clan that were immortal, all of them had green eyes. What would he do if she was immortal despite the eye color? He would decide if it ever came to that point. She had stopped crying in her sleep and seemed to be deep in slumber. A sign flashed by stating it would be another two hours to their destination. Except for the puffiness from crying, she seemed to bear no marks from his blows on her face. _To think that one name would drive me to such a paroxysm of fury. One simple name…._ He remembered some names; ones he would never forget…..

**Area of Future England ca. 3500 B.C.E**

…_..He had made a small cairn in a remote area that he felt no one would be likely to find. In it he placed his crown, her sword, and a tattered piece of sheepskin stained with markings. They represented the authority he no longer held, a thing he had lovingly forged for one who was lost to him, and the item that had brought them together. He wrapped the items carefully; he did not know why. If he never laid his eyes on these things again, that would be too soon. He worked with singular purpose until his task was accomplished. Then he realized his furs and clothing were in tatters and that he was hungry. While he consumed his kill by a small fire, he conducted a mental tally in his head. He counted the Ap Hwywd of which he knew, and minus the dead equaled…..eight. Sardicus, Dhurgal, Dougal, Bronwyn, Clydweth, Gwynach, Colluill, and …that thing he had learned of from what Daoine tomes he could purloin. He had been initially overjoyed at seeing so many at Tara Hill, but they for the most part treated him as if he were an annoyance. Even the snow-haired one had done so many a time. Their refusal to accept him turned to hurt and regret, but only for a short while. They acted as if they were better than the humans, but to him they were not. When one of them upbraided Blaenwys for asking to read one of their tomes, something snapped inside him. No one was going to treat his queen like that! In a short time, he had a number of their tomes in his possession. He had only really stolen one volume from them. They never seemed to notice its absence. The Daoine had some serious shortcomings in relation to humans, but maybe those shortcomings allowed them to live more peaceably. If a human lost a possession, he would notice it missing and try to find it; with a Daoine, out of sight was literally out of mind for most anything not kept on their person. If they had caught someone stealing, though, they could be more brutal than any human. They relied more on a sort of race memory than humans did; writing was something they did only as amusement. The tome was of some of their history; it was fragmented in many places, but it still gave him some insights into these people. He had realized that he was not of their race and never would be accepted as one of them no matter how well he knew their culture. Blaenwys giggled when he showed her his trove he had gained in such a short time. You are not going to try to eat these or use them as rags? My, how you have changed! They both laughed at that. It was because of you that I did this, turning to her with a warm smile. No, I showed you how to read, but you were the one who was motivated to learn. You are the one that helped you, not I. She was modest in many ways to a fault. He did not know if that…thing had a name, but he would know it when he saw it. It may have been what drove the Ap Hwywds to do what they did. It had no respect for any sort of life. It would eat anything, kill anything for any reason. It was what the Eldritch tome called a bog beast…..His expression was grim as he stared into the embers. I will remember all those names. I will find them as well. No more truce with them, no more peace. I will hunt you down and kill all of you, and any that get in my way… _

"Who are you?"

He must have dozed off again. Late afternoon it appeared from the sky. He stretched and then felt a light pressure on his right arm. He turned towards the touch to see Gwyneth fully awake and staring at him, blue eyes wide. She was who had touched him on the arm. "What did you say?"

"I said, who are you? Who did I dream of in my sleep?"

"My name is Brother Timothy. That is all you need to know. We are close to our journey's end. When we debark, you will take me to the address of your place here." His tone was brisk; having one of _them_ close by was bad enough. Having one close by _alive_ was something else entirely. _Maybe you should have killed her then, it would have made things so much easier._ Perhaps the long period of relative peace had dampened his malevolent ardor. _From the way you savaged her, maybe not._ The whole matter was disturbing to him in ways it shouldn't have been.

"Who was buried and had but only one weeping so copiously over her? And where was that place—aaghk!" Brother Timothy's right hand clamped on her throat like a vise. _So easy to crush the life from humans, isn't it? It is so easy to snuff them out. They will always breed more._ He calmed himself as best he could and released some pressure on her neck. "Don't you ever speak of who was buried there. Your kind even dreaming of that makes me ill. If you ever do speak of that again, I will assuredly kill you. The place is unimportant to you as well. All that matters is to find your thieving cousin and deal with him. Is that clear?" She nodded, her eyes wide with terror. He released his grip as the train reached its destination.

Amanda had been out and about, but not doing her usual sort of activity. She was at various libraries looking up historical references. Dawson's associates had helped immeasurably in her project; the first mention of any formal rules of combat had been in the early 1200's. it was frustrating to her that no other reference or cross reference she had referred to gave any earlier mention of any rules. She had discovered a very disturbing trend, though. She had been around for over a thousand years herself. Despite her penchant for thievery, she was intelligent and learned, no small thanks to her mentor. She had accepted long ago that mortals would be mortals; war was just one of those things that happened. But this did not make any sense. Ok, Tours was in 732. The Muslim flood had been stopped here. But there were references to some other battle only a few years later. No formal mention was made of this, only some scraps and writings that were only vaguely descriptive at best. The trend continued down the centuries; references to cataclysmic war and destruction but almost never any formal documentation. That began to change about 1000 A.D., though. Crusader battles of known occurrence were punctuated with pointless paroxysms of violence in between. The battle of The Standards in the 1100's stated that lightning crackled across the field of battle. _A quickening?_ The Christian religion had a good hold on Europe at that time; now more and more documentation had been produced, along with some disturbing pictures. This one was a reprint of something allegedly drawn or such approximately 1030 A.D. It was called 'The Massacre of The Heretics". It showed a monk ministering to what looked like Vikings….with a bloody sword. One of the bodies had light coming out of its neck. From France came complaints of demons and the like violating graveyards with acts of wanton destruction. Germany and the area of Italy had more of the same plus references to some villages being destroyed. This trend became even more noticeable by the end of the 1100's. Then…the trend mysteriously disappeared. From the 1200's on, things looked normal. Ok, she thought, maybe the rules were never formalized. She made a list of all the anomalies noted, added dates to them as best as she could, then compiled it into a database. Even after removing the most unbelievable of the references, she still had left a file of several _hundred_ instances of possible immortals revealing themselves to mortals. _Or maybe somebody did formalize them to stop such occurrences._ There was a trend to the references, though. They started with ignorant awe, giving way to fear and insanity, then suspicion, then…..outrage. At first some thought it divine intervention; by the end, many thought it was the devil's doing. She rubbed her eyes. When she decided to pursue something, she would often pursue it to the exclusion of anything else. She had been at this for awhile even before she had asked Duncan for a favor. She gathered up her notes after copying off the database she had created then left for her home. Enough of this for the moment. She had to get out and stretch her legs for awhile. She listened to her messages. I wonder what Duncan wants, she thought. She had her cell phone off and she decided to keep it that way. Its ringing interrupted her concentration when she least wanted it to. A quick change of clothes and she was in her favorite type of outfit: a cat suit. Though it was the sort of outfit useful to a thief, it was comfortable as well. She decided to wander down to the train station area where there were plenty of nice shops to frequent. Whatever Duncan wanted, it probably was not important anyways.

"Duncan, its Dawson. Two more watchers are dead and another was wounded. You are not going to like this."

"What the hell happened, Dawson? I don't know—"

"I think I convinced them of the same. Three immortals attacked and beheaded another immortal in broad daylight, though. There are numerous witnesses. "Dawson did not sound at ease over the phone.

"In broad daylight? That is insane! I have been trying to get a hold of Amanda for the last day. You have any idea where she is? Or is it coincidence that as soon as she announces she is going to find out the origin of those very rules, things start to go to hell?"

Dawson chuckled nervously. "I do not think she or you are to blame for this. Sooner or later, we will find out who the rogues are. What I need to know is what you and the others would think if we had to take some pre-emptive actions." The tone of his voice was of a serious nature now.

"You do what you have to do. We can't afford to be found out like that."

"Fair enough. Keep in touch, Duncan. And watch yourself."

He hung up the phone. Ok, if he couldn't get a hold of Amanda on the phone, he would drop in on her in person.

Amanda loved the train station area. Plenty of shops and marks…she resolutely decided to concentrate on shopping only. It was not as if she couldn't afford whatever she wanted; even the most money-wasting sort of immortal could still save up over a few centuries. It was always for the thrill of it she purloined things. Lately though, she tried to think about her actions before acting. Maybe Duncan's constant lectures were finally getting through to her. He was too dour and serious at times, though. She on occasion had to kick up her heels and have some fun. Nothing in the shops seemed to interest her today, though. She walked around, observing the people as they bustled about. _So many easy marks, but it seems that I have no interest in that anymore._ What was the point of stealing things that you could simply buy if you wanted them? She had a respectable stash of jewelry, but disdained to wear most of it. They just got in the way. _Or they call too much attention to you?_ She shook her head. Even though she was attractive, she also took pains to look as mundane as possible. It was while she passed by a debarking are for the passengers that she saw someone sitting on a bench. Was that Gwyneth? If so, maybe she was here with her cousin. She knew he liked her, but she did her best not to get tangled up with mortals. He was also a thief like her, but that hair of his would one day be his undoing. She walked closer to look at the person on the bench. It was Gwyneth! She was sure of it! This would be a pleasant diversion from an otherwise boring day. "Hi, Gwyneth! What brings you to Paris?"

The moment she looked into Gwyneth's eyes, she knew something was wrong. Her green eyes were wide in fear and she inhaled sharply on seeing Amanda. "Hello, Amanda. I did not know you would be here, but this is not a very good time."

"What is wrong, Gwyneth? I know there is something amiss here. You look scared out of your wits and you look like you have been crying. "

"Amanda, it is best if you go from here. Lyonal is in some serious trouble and I am here to find him. "Her shoulders slumped. "I probably signed his death warrant, considering what has happened. "

Amanda noticed some fading bruises on Gwyneth's face. "Gwyneth! Please tell me what is going on! We have been friends—"

"He already has all but promised to kill me; he already has killed several others! I do not want you involved in this! He will kill anyone that gets in his way, and I know he is capable of it!"

If there is one thing in which a thief was skilled, it was assessing threats to their person and in their area. Amanda was more so skilled than most. A quick look around did not reveal any blatant hostiles. She scanned the crowd more closely. Every muscle in her body tingled; even now, adrenaline was coursing through her system. It was the fight or flight reflex honed to an unbelievable level. Even Duncan would not have been able to react as quickly as Amanda under these conditions. A group of US tourist types were no threat. The same went for a woman in a stroller, two station gendarmes, and several businessmen. There was a figure in brown stalking towards them; no doubt in her mind where the threat was. They were in a monk's habit; brown wool from head to foot and the hood pulled up. What she could see was a firmly set chin and a grim expression on his face, at least what she could see of it. She looked at Gwyneth. She had backed away from the monk and her eyes were even wider in fear; Amanda's instinct had proven itself out again. "Gwyneth, listen to me! We need to run from here, away from whoever that is! I know some people who will protect you, especially from one who beat you for whatever reason. You will have to trust me more than you ever have, but I can help you!" She shook Gwyneth out of her frozen stance. "Come on!" It did not take anymore urging for her to follow Amanda where she went.


	17. Chapter 16

He had fallen asleep on the sofa in the living room, a newspaper folded on top of him. Lyonal jolted awake. He had been tired after the train ride. He did not even bother to change before he drifted off. _It was almost like a bad dream,_ he thought. That was until he saw the accusatory sack at the foot of the couch. It had not been a dream, then. Whoever had instructed him to take these things had tried to kill him in Wales. It was too bad that he had involved Gwyneth in this, but like any human, self-preservation was high on his list. He had to think about what he would do next. As tempting as it was to toss away the stolen items, he realized they were the only things of value he had to trade for his miserable life. _Should he contact_ the_ ones who had him take the items?_ Why, so they could try to kill him again? It looked like he would be going far away this time, maybe even to the States. He shuddered at that thought, but it was perhaps the only alternative he had left. Maybe at some future time, he could bargain to live, but for now, living was all that mattered, regardless of the cost. He made some calls, but they would not get back to him for a while. He decided that maybe a drink would help his mood, so after putting on a hat to hide most of his hair, he left using the front stairs.

At least one other person saw him leave as well. They hurriedly scribbled down the dwelling number and left in the opposite direction of Lyonal.

Brother Timothy was only surprised for a moment. One moment Gwyneth was sitting alone, the next she was conversing with some brown haired female of lithe build. Then they both darted up from the bench and disappeared into the crowd. _Was this planned?_ He did not know, but he knew one thing: The Ap Hwywd, immortal or not, was a dead person. Her companion was not as naïve as Gwyneth was, though. She had coolly picked him out from a crowd as being the one with Gwyneth. She also ducked and dodged like a …_thief!_ He knew that under these circumstances, he would never be able to catch them. Once he gained an idea of their general direction, all he needed to do was to keep them within range of sight or hearing. _Then I will have one less Ap Hwywd to worry about._ He looked forward to seeing her blood spill on the ground almost as much as one of the ones he sought. They were all the same in his mind though. _I will purge the world of all of them!_ With singular intent, he dogged their trail…..

**Barcelona, Spain**

"Would you like some more coffee, Senor Cordoba?"

"No, thank you, I am fine." He intently scanned the paper page by page. He had the previous five days' editions in a pile next to him. Some articles were marked with a red pen; strange marks were next to some of them. Methos had not fled too far, relatively speaking. This place was very secure and private, though. He had taken pains to prepare for any eventuality…_except for possibly this! _ No more attacks had occurred on his person since that one night, but all precautions had been taken. His sword never left his side now. The caretakers thought that odd. But they were of the sort to never question the actions of who paid the bills. Methos put down the newspaper and picked up a lined pad._ It is already starting,_ he thought. He knew who had killed those watchers; they were the same ones who had killed that immortal in broad daylight. _It was probably some of their acolytes again._ Who it was really did not matter, though. _It will get worse…much worse, though. Side one has the numbers and a total disregard for any rules._ He absently mindedly circled the left side of the pad in his hands. The circle went around eight names; under them, he had placed a question mark because he didn't know who else had sided with them. He could be sure that they had a lot of them though; he had seen how they fought in the past. Now he looked at the right side: Eight names total. Two of them he crossed out. That left six. It was when he looked at the six names that his face drained of color. _When side two finds side one…_ He had seen both sides fight each other…directly and indirectly. Side two had a severe disadvantage: only four of the six listed were human. _One of the humans may still be trapped where they were some time ago._ That left five, including three humans. Side one had only one inhuman entity. _Side two is far more learned, but also far more destructive. They believe in the new gods, but also the old._ This was ironic. _If they kill one from side two before they are aware of the danger…they would eventually win….._and I will be next to die. _If any of side two becomes aware of side one…well, you remember what the result of that was numerous times, don't you? The carnage lay strewn about for leagues!_ They were also the ones who cheerfully said they would kill him if the truce was broken, at least that one did. What worried him most after his own head were Duncan and Amanda. Duncan had become a close friend; Amanda had as well to a degree. He was worried that Amanda's penchant for tampering plus Duncan's goddamned sense of ethics would get them both killed. Y_ou do not want to meet ANY of these people! _ He sighed, shook his head, and then finished his coffee. It was time for some more sword practice.

It was fortunate Gwyneth was dressed for travel, not for a night out on the town. She was not wearing a cat suit, but she was able for the most part as she cut in and out though all sorts of areas. They finally stopped to rest three flights up on an outside stairway. They both caught their breath, and then Amanda spoke.

"What has Lyonal done this time. And what is with that idiot's getup? Amanda laughed. "He looks so…13th century!"

Gwyneth was not laughing or smiling. Her gaze pierced Amanda. "You sound as if you know my cousin…have you two met?" Her tone was cool, her expression guarded. "Do you steal things as well, Amanda?" Now her gaze was hard and glittering.

"I know Lyonal, Gwyneth. I also know that I consider you my friend. Why are you looking at me like that?" Amanda seemed hurt.

"Because what Lyonal did resulted in three dead men I know of, and possibly more. You would not think it so amusing if you had seen what I have seen. I would like to think of you as a friend as well, but you steal things too? Was it you that made Lyonal into what he is? ANSWER ME!"

"No Gwyneth, never! He was like that even before I met him. You have to believe me! I would never do something like that!"

"That remains to be seen. I suppose since that monk promised to kill me if I fled, I have no other choice than to follow you…for the moment." Her expression spoke of trust lost at that very moment.

"What is the deal with that—" Amanda gasped and looked down to the ground. The monk was there! He leapt up into the air and with a prodigal show of strength, pulled himself up to the first flight of stairs! Amanda was good, better than most, she thought. But that monk had found them. "No time now to talk Gwyneth!" Amanda pointed down. "Run! We have only a short way to go!" Gwyneth needed no urging. Death was written all over the Monk's features.

Duncan pulled up to Amanda's place to see a familiar car already there. Ever vigilant, he got out of the car. He had his trench coat on, and underneath it, his Katana. _Maybe I am paranoid,_ he thought. All things considered, he was not really paranoid. His kind always had to be ready to fight, even if they enjoyed a long lifetime. Dawson and two other watchers were in the car. They got out at Duncan's approach.

"Fancy seeing you here, Duncan." Dawson smiled.

"I could say the same. What brings you here?"

"Amanda sent us a database she compiled. Amazing what work she can do if she sets her mind to it. I had some questions regarding it is all. I could not reach her on her phone."

"I could not either. I decided I will wait around to see if she shows up. I also have some questions I want to ask her." His expression was not pleasant.

_This is insane! He moves as fast as I do, even with that robe he wears!_ Amanda was actually breathing hard; Gwyneth was not much better off. At least her place was not too far away. She could not ever be as paranoid as Duncan, but now was one of those times she wish she had been. Her sword was at her home, along with various other devices. This had ceased to be a game a while ago. Only her keenly honed senses made her duck as something shot through the air where she had been a moment before. _A crossbow quarrel?_ The quarrel was made of metal tipped wood , and it smoked as it ate into the wood where it had buried itself. _He shot at us with a quarrel soaked in acid!_ It may not have had the range of a pistol, but it still could kill within its range. She yelled at Gwyneth to hurry as they clattered down a fire escape. Amanda jumped the last several feet just fine, but Gwyneth stumbled and fell to the ground on impact. Amanda helped her up and they continued running. She looked back to see the monk drop twice the distance she had but come up from a roll unaffected. "Here we are! You run into my house! I am going to take care of this." Then she felt the familiar tingling sensation. As she rounded the corner with Gwyneth, she saw MacLeod and Dawson talking to each other.

Duncan felt the tingling as well. He whipped around, his right hand inside his trench coat, hand on his hilt as Amanda ran into view. Behind her, a very attractive woman with red hair and green eyes followed. They both were out of breath. "Duncan!" Amanda gasped. "This is my friend Gwyneth! I saw her at the train station. Someone is chasing us; he shot at me with a crossbow!" Before Duncan or the others could process that information, their pursuer trotted into plain view; they seemed not to be breathing hard and they were silent.

_This was planned! _ A voice screamed in his head. The brown haired woman was some sort of rogue or thief. He had not believed he missed with that quarrel, but he did. Now they were there in sight, but three more were with them! It took all his will not to cry havoc and attack. Thought was now needed, not battle fury. One was an old man with a beard; next to him were two younger ones. The one that the brown haired woman and Gwyneth were half-hidden behind seemed more a threat. He had his hand under a trench coat, as if he had a …_sword? _ _Are they of my kind?_ That was easy to determine. The trick was here to keep who he was hidden. Slowly, he released his conscious block on who he really was. _Those two are immortal!_ This attempt to regain Gwyneth may have taken an ugly turn. He had no wish to fight, only to retrieve the items stolen from him. The trench coated male's visage was grim, though. _A youngling, but seasoned!_ The bearded one and the two others were only mortals, though. His trot slowed to a walk, then to a standstill as the trench coated one drew a sword.

_If I lecture Amanda at all, I will do it later._ Duncan reacted as expected under the circumstances. His Katana was twisted out from his coat into a guard position. One of Dawson's companions reached for a nine millimeter pistol from their waistband. The Monk pulled out a small crossbow; with blinding speed, a quarrel was loaded. "If you pull that projectile weapon, you are dead, "the monk said in an icy voice. He looked at Dawson, who motioned his companion to put it away. Duncan was still holding his sword.

"You shouldn't be chasing my friends around the city like that. And maybe you should put your little toy away before you get hurt?"

"Duncan!" Amanda screamed, "Those quarrels are tipped with acid!"

"I am not really concerned about you, youngling, but that Ap Hwywd is mine." The monk had put away the crossbow, but Dawson gave a hand signal to his associates: do not draw your weapons. He was knowledgeable enough to know there was something very odd about this monk. The monk walked menacingly towards Gwyneth, who cringed back behind Amanda. Duncan stepped in front, blocking the monk.

"Why? So you can kill her?" Amanda spat. "She is my friend!"

"You would kill her in a flat fell second if you knew what she was. If I did so, I would be doing the world a favor." The monk laughed humorlessly.

"Oh, so you want to kill a female? You sound very brave. She is not yours; as you see, possession is nine tenths of the law. You shot at my friend with that quarrel. You deal with me before you deal with anything else." Duncan's smirk was not of joviality. He also knew there was something amiss as well about this monk. Anyone who could closely chase Amanda in a monk's robe was dangerous indeed. The monk happened to glance at Dawson and saw the mark on his right wrist. The monk's reaction was unexpected. A sharp intake of breath was followed by a string of what could only be obscenities in some language. Then he reverted to English. "Chroniclers! They still exist I see. What poor shame for the world." The monk spat out the first word as his left hand clenched. Duncan glanced at his hand. _Its covered in metal, like a gauntlet! _ "So brave you won't even show your face? And now you insulted another of my friends." Duncan strode forward, but the monk skipped back. The monk's hands reached into his cowl and reached over his left shoulder. They were wrapped around the hilt of a sword; the hilt had been unnoticeable until now. Duncan froze. _A sword?_ _Immortals carry swords, but I would sense another immortal if they were near! _Amanda was also near, but he still should have sensed it! He intoned in a clear voice, "I am Duncan MacLeod of The Clan Macleod. Who are you? Show your face, coward!" He was ready to fight regardless of the circumstances, but didn't this look like that monk in his dreams? A band of blue lightning crackled up the monk's left arm and off the hilt of his sword. "Who I am is of no consequence, youngling. We walk unknown amongst you; at one time we were malevolence incarnate. I reveled in the destruction I caused." The monk turned his head towards Gwyneth. "You fled from me; you I will kill as I promised at some point." He jerked his head around to MacLeod, "You and your friend interfere with me at your own peril! That goes doubly so with those chroniclers! We shall meet again, Ap Hwywd!" Without a further word, the monk turned and left the area.

Duncan was the first to speak, "What in hell was that, Dawson? That looked like quickening fire."

"I don't know, MacLeod, I don't know at all. That is the first time I have been called a Chronicler, though. We started calling ourselves Watchers in the 1500's. As to what the other things meant, did you understand what they said?" One of Dawson's associates brought him a laptop. Soon, he had a special program open.

"Amanda, take your friend inside your place. Dawson and I have something to discuss. And we DO need to talk."

Amanda smiled weakly at that last comment. "Okay, Duncan. And thank you." She guided Gwyneth inside. Once they were there, Gwyneth turned towards Amanda, ready with numerous questions.

"I do not really have any answers, Gwyneth, not any that would be believed. But you are free of whoever that psycho was." Amanda got them both a soda. "Now, what is going on with Lyonal?"

Gwyneth did not fully trust Amanda despite the favor she had done in helping her escape from the monk. _ She is a thief, just like Lyonal! She can't be trusted!_ Using this line of reason as a template, she gave Amanda only the most general details of what happened. She did not reveal the monk's speaking in Celtic or any of the other incongruous things. The monk had taken her to Paris to guarantee her co-operation was all. Lyonal had stolen some money, but she really did not know where he was. Amanda thought for a second. "It is best you do not tell Duncan I know Lyonal. All he will do is lecture me." She made a grim looking face. They both laughed. "Anyways, I am glad you are safe and here with me." They hugged. "I want you to stay here with me while Duncan helps get this sorted out."

"Who is he? And who are those other men?"

"Don't worry about that. As long as they are around, though, you will be safe. That psycho will not dare show up here."

As to Duncan sorting things out, that was seemingly far form a done deal. There were numerous immortals listed in the Watcher database, but only two monks; both deceased. Amanda's database, though informative, only brought more questions. He had told Dawson about the dream he had, but that still did not help.

"We both want to talk to Amanda, it seems, but now we will have to wait."

"Yeah," Dawson said, "At least Amanda can probably brush off any questions her friend has. We seem to need to do some more research. Before you leave, tell Amanda I need to talk as soon as possible." Dawson and his associates got into their car and left. Duncan walked into Amanda's dwelling. He hugged Amanda, and then was introduced to her friend.

"She is the one studying that Celtic stuff, Duncan."

He raised an eyebrow. "Really? What did your monk friend say to Dawson, then?"

"He is no friend of mine!" Gwyneth said almost vehemently. "I was not able to understand what he said. I have never heard speech like his."

"That's no problem. Will you excuse us for a moment? I have to talk to Amanda." After he watched Gwyneth pull out a laptop pc and become absorbed in its contents, Duncan whipped around to glare at Amanda. She was taken aback at his expression.

"Duncan, that was not—"

"I don't give a damn whose fault it was, Amanda!" He kept his voice low as he continued to speak. "All I know is that I was once again nearly forced into a battle I prefer to avoid! Of course, this time it is an immortal that Dawson has no record of even existing, and one that seems to be one hell of a lot more dangerous than the general sort we see. If I find out you have anything to do with this whatsoever….." He let the threat hang in the air. "You really need to grow up and think before you act. Or we may both lose our heads! And by the way, Dawson wants to talk to you as soon as possible."

"Are you through yet, Duncan?" Amanda looked exasperated. "I had nothing to do with this. Gwyneth is my friend and I helped her out. You would have done the same in my position!" She threw up her hands in defeat. "Oh what's the use? It is always Amanda's fault for everything? Maybe if you would lighten up and not be so grim all the time!" She had finished her tirade and glared at Duncan, but the glare did not last long. He had a disarming smile when he wanted to be charming. "Okay, I will talk to Dawson. Please no more lectures, though?"

"Okay, Amanda. I will see you soon. Do not forget, though; Dawson tomorrow!" He kissed her and left.

Gwyneth could not hear what they were discussing, but she did not try. It was apparent that Duncan was upset with Amanda for some reason, but that did not concern her, either. She had managed to save Brother Timothy's usage of her Celtic language program. There were all the runes again. The top was her last name in Runes, or as close as could be to it. The rest sort of made sense; variations on the runes. The last line was a mystery, though. It was runic…but it was as if it was overly descriptive or decorative. She then tried to find out how he had made them, but her task was interrupted by Amanda.

"I have an extra room you can use. I am going to sleep now. I will see you in the morning. "Amanda went into her room and closed the door.

Only after the door had closed did Amanda exhale in a long sigh. Since thieves are forced by their profession to lie or learn to stretch the truth, Amanda was experienced in that skill. As a corollary to that premise, liars are near the best at detecting others of that sort. _Gwyneth is a poor liar,_ she thought. She was hurt in a way that she would lie to her, since Amanda considered Gwyneth her friend. Maybe it was because she now knew Amanda was a thief like her cousin. _It has been years since I really stole something, though! Once a thief, always a thief, _she supposed_._ Maybe that was why she only had thieves for friends. _Or people like Duncan who doesn't judge as harshly._ Despite all this, Amanda was faithful to her friends. She would find out the truth of this matter, even if it killed her. She had not realized how close to this statement she would arrive in a short while, or how scared she would be in the process. There were assuredly questions to which you would not want answers, and truths you would not want to have revealed. Such is the psyche of humankind, seek the answers and deal with the implications later. All this was at the moment of no consequence to her. She intended to keep an eye on Gwyneth; a very close eye.

Amanda's suspicions were correct. It was around eleven in the evening that Gwyneth's cell phone chimed softly. She had not really wanted one of the infernal things, but her profession made it a necessity. One never knew when someone would call with some information regarding her work, but mostly it was wrong numbers. She picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Gwyneth, it's Lyonal. I wanted to call you to let you know I am safely here in Paris. I couldn't reach you at home."

She sighed. "That is because I am in Paris as well, Lyonal. Is everything all right? I am worried about you."

"You were worried about me? Well, this place was not smashed to ruins, and it didn't have any corpses here. What in hell happened where we live? Were you hurt?" He sounded concerned.

"I am fine. It is not a good idea for us to talk on the phone. Someone might be eavesdropping. I am at a friends place here. You even know who she is. Amanda. You know, a thief like you!"

"I suppose I deserved that, Gwynnie, but you have to understand—"

"I understand enough! Are you alone there?"

"Yes, I am. It is rather boring, though."

"Pity that. I will be over there shortly. We have some things to discuss." The line went dead. As quietly as possible, Gwyneth let herself out. She did not want Amanda to know she had left.

She had no chance of doing that. Amanda was fully alert on the first cell phone chime. She could not hear the conversation, but she knew who it had to be that had called. Not ten minutes after Gwyneth had left, Amanda also left, clad in her cat suit. This time, though, she was prepared for the worst. Her sword rode securely in a sheath attached to her back. She had covered herself with a black coat that was baggy enough to hide the weapon, but snug enough at the ends so as not to impede her movement.

He had meandered around the town as dusk fell and then surrendered to evening. It was odd that he was not angry about the confrontation earlier but he was disgusted that she had gotten away from him and even more disgusted that he had lost the address of her Paris dwelling. He remembered enough to know its general area, though. At some point, she would have to warn Lyonal, though. Even if she did so by telephone, he would see him leaving. That was only a minor concern at the moment, though. The major thing on his mind was those tattooed mortals. _Watchers!_ Up until now, they had not known he existed… Who would have calculated odds, though, that an Ap Hwywd had an immortal friend who knew another who was chummy with some Watchers? He had always thought that they did not reveal themselves to immortals, but not in this case. He laughed aloud at this unfortunate circumstance, but the people around him paid him no mind. He was seated at an open air Bistro, eating some sort of sandwich. _If they saw you, they may decide to watch you!_ And then some Watchers will start having accidents again…just like before. That had been one thing that both parties had agreed on. No Watcher's watch us. They were the most dangerous mortals of any he had ever encountered. Their paradigm had already accepted the impossible; they then cheerfully collated and wrote down these impossible doings. They probably had one hell of an archive stashed somewhere. There was no way to really brush them off…_except to bump them off._ He laughed yet again. He would solve that problem in its own time. A few more dead Watcher's would not be missed; his enemies would see to that.. As he scanned the crowds, he centered on a woman with red hair. It was Gwyneth. As he got up to accost her, his instincts sensed danger. Five others seemed to have that same idea; four males and one female. They all had bulky jackets on for some reason; very out of season those were. His eager pace began to become a slower one as he followed those five who followed Gwyneth.

A third party also observed the drama. Amanda was in inconspicuous mode; every conscious and unconscious action was taken to lessen anyone's memory of her being there. First Gwyneth, now she had five others following her! How could she be so stupid! Then she froze. A figure robed in brown was also following them! It had to be that monk or whatever they were. Needless to say, Amanda's instinct for self preservation overrode what foolish gallantry she may have executed. One of her could not match six others. The five in the group were probably armed, and the monk…..well she had gotten a taste of his attitude already. She ducked back into the shadows. All she could do was watch and wait. If anything happened to her friend, though, she would get revenge.

She was right about the five. Once she had been brought up to date on things, Bronwyn had lost no time gathering information. She had easily found out where Lyonal was staying, and also about Gwyneth. She had counted on the inevitable with good cause, and it had panned out correctly. The five who followed Gwyneth were not of a highbrow sort, but they got jobs done with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of politesse. Reynald was their informal leader, that is, he usually called the shots. Corinne was female, but as tough as any of the men. They intended this job to go off like clockwork. First accost those two, second, retrieve the items, third, get the hell out. Speed, shock action, and firepower were their trade. They quickly moved up behind their target.

Gwyneth trudged up the stairs to where her dwelling was. She had no idea what she was going to do when she arrived, but she would figure out something. She only became aware of others on the stairs when a cold something dug into her back. "Keep on going in the direction you are heading. We both know where we are going, so you best not try any tricks, okay?" The voice had a hint of brogue. Any doubts as to whether they meant business was accentuated with a grip on both of her arms. _Why was I so stupid! Look what I have done now! _ It was out of her hands now, though. Without a word, she unlocked the door to her dwelling. While she was held still by two of the group, the other three swiftly reconnoitered the area. A shout and the breaking of some glassware signaled that they had found their quarry. "Ok, we got him! Bring her into the living room here!" She was almost tossed onto the couch there. Beside her sat a very frightened looking Lyonal. The woman and two of the men sat across from them in chairs while the other two took up posts by the front and back entrances. Reynald spoke first. "It is so grand that we are all here. Now, where should we begin?" Corinne smirked, "How about an easy question? Where are the items you took?"

"I have no idea of what—" Corinne backhanded Lyonal across the face. The blow rocked him on the couch. A red welt was starting to rise on his cheek.

"We seem to think you do have an idea. You will give them over, and then we leave. Or maybe we will be here a while. It is your choice!" Corinne took out a large hunting knife and began to pick her nails with it.

Gwyneth slapped Lyonal as well. "Enough with this foolishness! Give them the damn items! They are far more trouble than you would imagine, anyways!"

Glumly, he acquiesced. "They are under the sink. I would have given them over before, but they—" Corinne slapped him again. "Shut your mouth. I heard enough of ye already to not want to hear anymore." The third man retrieved the satchel with a look of triumph. "Everything is here as she said it would be! Who gets to do the honors?"

Reynald took out a pistol and screwed something onto the barrel. Lyonal looked in horror. _That was a silencer! _ "Wait a minute! You said you would leave when you got the items!' He almost wailed the statement. Gwyneth was only in shock. She could simply not imagine people like this. "For the love of God—"

"That's right; we did say we would leave after we had the items. But we didn't say about leaving anyone alive. Consider this your retirement." He raised the pistol just as a loud boom resounded down the hall, followed by a second loud noise, then some scrabbling sounds.

Brother Timothy made a quick decision. _The thief is probably there with the items. I don't need Gwyneth any longer._ He had no doubts in his mind as to what the group of five sought. This was the approximate area of the address she had given him, he remembered that much. As silently as he could, he had shadowed the group of five to where they now were. He had not heard the door latch, but that did not mean that it was not locked. If he was too slow, the thief might escape. _And guess what, MORE interfering mortals! _Just for once, he would like to simply proceed towards his goal without anyone in his way. _Not this time, though._ As quietly as possible he moved up to the door. It did not seem to be of the best construction, but he decided to take no chances. Bracing his armored left arm against his body, he smashed into the door with his full force. The latch gave way with a cracking sound; he had overestimated the door's strength as he entered; the door smacked against the wall with a sound loud enough to wake the dead. Fortunately, the one they had at the door had been knocked down by his entrance. They tried to aim some sort of projectile weapon of sorts at him, but he plucked it out of their hands, lacerating one of their fingers in the process. The man did not stop there, and that was what caused Brother Timothy to lose patience. They shot him with a pistol! It felt like someone had slugged him in the guts, but it did not slow down Brother Timothy. _This robe was worth what I paid,_ he thought. The slug that would have torn through his body was a mangled ruin on the floor. His left hand crushed the neck of the irritating mortal. He picked up the first projectile weapon by the muzzle. Then he walked down the hall with the weapon and the corpse in tow.

Reynald and the others turned to see a rather strange and gruesome sight. A monk was carrying Raul, the guard, by the throat. It was apparent that Raul was dead. Blood trickled off the monk's left hand and left a trail on the floor and rug, but the monk paid it no mind. He tossed Raul's corpse on the floor like so much baggage. He also had Raul's Uzi, but he was holding it by the muzzle! After staring at it for a moment, the Uzi landed on the floor as well, making a clatter that made everyone jump.

"Of what God do you speak, you murderous piece of shit? There are a plethora of them after all." The monk looked at the Uzi on the floor. "I really do not like those things. Had your friend not shot me with another one of these, he still might be alive." The monk said almost conversationally. He was hooded so only his mouth and chin showed.. He turned towards Gwyneth and Lyonal. "I told you I would find you, Ap Hwywd." Next his head canted towards Lyonal. "You are the murdering thief I seek! Are you an Ap Hwywd as well?" Now the monk's tone was icy as the cold wind. He saw the satchel at Reynald's feet. "Those are the items stolen from me." The monk's right hand snapped up to point at Reynald. "You will give those items to me now; the same goes for the two redheads."

"Oh really? And why would I do something like that?" Reynald was unsettled. Events had taken a most unexpected turn, and that did not sit with him well. He had already taken his measure of the intruder, and though he was impressed with their strength, he was not so impressed with their stupidity. It was time to cut their losses as quickly as possible; Raul could be replaced. "You say you do not like projectile weapons? Not that I have ever heard them called such often these days, but too bad." The silenced pistol meant for Gwyneth and Lyonal now spat at the monk several times. The monk fell to the floor. Confident he had disposed of the unwelcome guest, Reynald turned back to Gwyneth and Lyonal.

_Yes, the robe was worth the cost._ The rounds knocked him down, but that was all they did. "That was the wrong answer." Quickly, he rose off the floor, eliciting gasps from all but one present.

The back door guard screamed out, "He's wearing some sort of armor! Watch out, Reynald!" The guard did only what his training had taught him to do. His Uzi blasted out its leaden symphony of forty rounds into the monk. The Impacts slammed the monk into a dresser, smashing it to ruin. Several rounds found their way under their hood. This time the monk fell and did not rise. The guard ran forward, apologizing profusely, "It was all I could do, sir! He is wearing some kind of body armor!"

"You did what you were trained to do. Get those items. We have to get out of here before the police arrive! Hurry!"

"What about them? And Raul?" Corinne gestured.

"Raul is of no more concern to us. Leave them as well." _Oh, this job had gone completely to hell! _It would be months possibly before he could contract out his services!

_He felt the black edges of death closing in on him. Three of the bullets had struck his neck; two had hit his carotid artery. Another had ricocheted off the inside of the robe into his back. His whole front from throat to groin was in agony. That is what he got for depending too much on what modern technology that was available, he supposed. But without the modified robe, he would have died several times already. Finally the pain in his front receded. The throat wounds had healed themselves. That had been a close call, but he would not die this time. The feeling of his blood on his underclothes was discomfiting, but it was his own fault. No more conversation…no more…._

Amanda heard the burst as well. Of course, a lot of others had as well, but she was the only one running towards the sound. It had come from the third floor up. She centered on the sound and walked quickly to its origin. Grimly, she loosened her sword in its scabbard. If Gwyneth was hurt, someone was going to pay, mortal or otherwise.

Quickly, Reynald got the items and headed towards the rear exit with the others. One of them had checked and then closed the remains of the front door. The rear door was not opening, though. Corinne raised her Uzi, but one of the other men motioned her away. He fell to the door latch with experienced aplomb. The silence of the moment was pierced by a cold chuckle.

"I asked you nicely for what is mine, but look at what I have received. Let's try an approach more suited to your kind."

The four of them whirled around at the voice. Gwyneth was still in shock from the last point of impending death, but Lyonal's face had gone white as a sheet.

Reynald was also shocked. It was the monk. The dead monk they had left on the floor. The dead monk who had taken a pummeling with an Uzi. The one who was unhooded now and had drying blood all over his neck. The dead monk that was reaching behind his back for something. _That is impossible!_ But he and the others were reacting even as this incongruity registered on their minds. The monk reached over his right shoulder. There was a sound like sandpaper, and then he held a s_word? This bastard fights with a sword?_ Reynald jumped away from the door as one of the guards raised a pistol, his face white as a sheet. He never got a chance. The sword the monk carried whistled down in a diagonal chop that nearly severed the guard in two. Blood spattered across the dwelling.

_This can not be happening! _Lyonal screamed in his mind. _People do not fight with two handed swords and they do not kill people with them! _Added to that fact in his mind was this was a monk who had accused him of murder as well as thievery. _They pursued me from that Monastery all the way to here! What in hell did I do thinking this was a common theft! _ The monk decapitated the second guard. Lyonal pulled Gwyneth off the couch as the monk bounded over it to get at the last man alive and the woman. "Stay down!" Lyonal had to flee. This went beyond insane to a whole new level. He crawled along the ground as he found the satchel just lying there. As quickly as possible, he grabbed it.

_This had really gone to hell…and probably me with it. _Reynald knew he was fighting for his very existence. That monk had killed three of his men; only he and Corinne were still alive. _Who would think someone would fight with a sword?_ He had no time to mull this incongruity, though. This monk _knew _how to use that weapon. Corinne had attacked them with her knife, but it was like a slingshot against a machine gun. She caught the full impact of a blow on that hunting knife, but her knife had _shattered!_ The Monk had then casually pitched her into a wall like she weighed nothing. She lay on the ground moaning. Now the bastard was after him! He knew he could not match them for strength. That sword had to be near five feet long, but the monk showed no signs of tiring.

_A black sword, darker than iron, that whistles as it brings a message of death._ Gwyneth was almost rapturous in awe. _I DID dream of you! But why?_ Who are you? That was the sword she had seen in her dreams, but its wielder was not dressed like a monk…they were…_a king….the king of kings?_

Reynald was tiring fast, but the monk showed no signs of such. Hell, he was not even breathing hard! Then he saw Lyonal crawling towards the back exit with the satchel in his hand. He dodged that sword and ran over to him to wrest the items away. The last thing he ever heard was the whistle of that deadly sword as it cleaved his mortal existence way. His bloody corpse bounced once on the floor from the impact.

_Flee! Flee! You must get away! _ He looked around and saw Gwyneth staring at the monk in a strange way. _What was wrong with her?_ He thought he should help her escape as well, but his self-preservation mode erased this thought from his mind. He only hoped he could open the door before that monk killed him, too. As luck would have it, he earned one last respite. The door opened after he hastily happened to choose the right key.

Corinne hissed in pain. Her left shoulder was dislocated at least, if not sprained. She had foolishly thought she could battle that sword with her favorite knife, but now the knife was in ruins. Reynald and the others were dead; the monk had butchered them like so much meat. She was probably next. Her right hand felt something metal and cold. A glance told her it was an Uzi. Slowly, she pulled it to her. The firing mechanism made a muffled click, but now that murderous bastard was looking at her. Before, it looked like he had been about to go for the red haired thief, but not anymore. "Isn't this all screwed up?" She squeezed the trigger as that dark sword angled towards her….

Brother Timothy used the sword as a shield from the spray of bullets. A few pulled at his robe, but many spanged off the sword with strange sounds. A kick removed the pistol from her hand; the sword tip through her eye removed her.

Gwyneth had been so absorbed in watching that sword that the impacts from the deflected bullets caused surprise at first. She looked down at her blouse and the spreading stains of blood. She sank to the floor, blackness closing in….._a dark sword that whistles death…..and mine as well….you get your wish after all…._

He removed his sword from Corinne's eye, and then whipped around, looking for the thief. They were nowhere in sight, but the back door was open. _I should not have gotten distracted! _ He cursed a foul oath at his negligence. _I wonder where she is…?_ Gwyneth lay on the floor open-eyed in death. A pool of blood was rapidly forming under her corpse. _It looks like that problem is solved. A dead Ap Hwywd is the best sort to have. _ Now he had to find the thief and the items. He was no longer in a pleasant mood. This made two times he had been thwarted. Sheathing his blade, he exited the charnel house as quickly as he could, though he stumbled over a corpse in his way.

Lyonal stumbled and half fell down the stairs outside. He fell painfully to the asphalt, but adrenaline and raw fear motivated him for all possible speed. _If that was what was hiding in that Monastery, no wonder why they wanted me to go there! _ Logic fought to control his runaway thoughts, but it was a lost battle. There was no logic to what had happened! Well, at least most of it. That monk had to be from the Monastery. They had tracked him down because of a death of another of their sort. _That bastard wields a Claymore or something like it! _ This monk cared not who he killed in order to find the one who had transgressed upon them. From there, the path led to insanity. He half ran, half staggered down the alleyway. Then he skidded to a stop. Now there was someone else in the shadows! _Screw this! I have had enough! _ His little .25 jumped into his hand,

Brother Timothy also moved down the stairs, but there was no longer any wasted motion in his efforts. The blood under his robe felt uncomfortable, but it dried quickly. _I am out of shape in a way, _he thought. _The end result of too much peace; a screw up like that again could cost you your head! _ As soon as he reached the ground, he fell silent. He shrugged his robe over his sword hilt and listened…_Listen for noise of vagrant boys and you are bound to find them….._ He quickly scanned the area; he knew where to go. He walked slowly, keeping to the shadows. Amanda would have been proud…..

**Areas of future England and future European Nations**

_…..The next few centuries were sort of a blur...he remembered crying a lot…and killing. Lots of killing…solely for the sake of it. Any others of his kind he ran across he butchered; the quickenings rarely affected him now. All that raised a weapon against him sealed their fate at that moment. There was such a copious trail of blood left behind in his meanderings that it became a legend to frighten children: He became Darksword the Malevolent, hater and slayer of all humankind. What kingly bearing he had once had seemed to disappear inside him. He rarely bathed and his hair had become an unruly mess once again. Anything anywhere could provoke his anger; nothing could make him smile. His laugh was like the coldest wind of winter, and it especially spelled doom. He took advantage of this often enough; he merely had to approach a village to make its inhabitants flee in fear. He helped himself to what food and clothing he found. This worked for a long time, until the people became too afraid and were too hungry. As many as he killed, still he was driven away from settlement after settlement….it seemed that they were right yet again.. savage born he was…savage he would always be….._

_ ….he had sunk back into savagery almost completely by now. He skulked through the wilderness, eating when hungry, sleeping when tired. His clothing had been mended countless times due to the leather rotting from the elements. Upon gazing at this, one would never think he once had been a ruler of men. He still cooked his meat, though that might be the only sign he was still civilized. He carried a young deer on his shoulder freshly killed. A drenching rain was soaking him, but he did not notice. He saw a light, which meant a fire and warmth. A fire alone would be best, but his belly rumbled with hunger…..he would use their fire, and kill any who tried to stop him…._

_ …it was a respectable sized clearing and sheltered from the elements. Numerous people were there, but all looked malnourished and gaunt. They all went silent when they saw him. The warriors cursed under their breaths, "Darksword now has come to slaughter, all who live and sons and daughters!" Such was the power of the legend, due to the slaughter he had wrought. Several warriors blocked the path to a man and woman on a flat rock. They had the looks of knowing they would die, but they still did their duty. A warning growl rumbled from him as he sat next to the fire in the shadows and spit the deer after cleaning it. When a few warriors approached him with weapons raised, he reached for his sword. The message was clear: I will cook my food here and I will kill any who try to stop me. As soon as it was cooked enough, he tore into it like a beast. A good part of the deer disappeared down his gullet. Someone cried 'Blaenwys' in fear. He jerked erect at that name and looked around. A little girl was there near him, hair as white as snow and as gaunt as a scarecrow. Who dares use that name? He growled. I am Blaenwys. I was named for the queen of legend who wished peace for all and malice to none. They are all afraid of you, but I am too hungry to be afraid. Will you share your repast with us? Do you know who I am, Blaenwys? The little girl scrunched up her face. Well, you stink, but you are a man with food. To the shock of all present, he shared his food with the girl. Soon all were eating venison. The druids of this tribe wished to thank the savage for the food, but he had disappeared. He did not want them to see him weep. _

_ …he followed the tribe of people. The warriors were wary of him and still spoke his name with a curse…Darksword! It was up to the druids, though, and the savage brought them food many other times. Their language was strange, but it resembled the Olden-Tongue enough so it was easy to learn….._

_ …because you are writing it wrong….do so like this. To the shock of the druids, he drew perfect runes on the ground. You can read! Yes, I can…..not much use for it. Who taught you to scribe? It was long ago. The female Druid wrinkled her nose at him as well….he did stink after reflecting on the matter….._

_ A further shock to the tribe! He had shorn his unkempt locks and bathed and shaved…..little Blaenwys was his favorite. Soon she became a woman and wedded. Ardis once again felt somewhat at peace…_

_ …raiders came and slaughtered. Blaenwys was raped and murdered and left in the druids tent along with the violated female druid…weregild was paid for the deaths and all considered the matter settled…..all but one…..he sat by her grave for three days weeping. Most were sad as well, but more than a few druids were scared…..the words Ardis used were not of their language…but of an older dialect…Olden-Tongue….there were olden writings that spoke of a Blaenwys….and her husband….._

…_He grinned….the debt was truly paid now!...But when he approached his dwelling, people screamed and ran. Why? The warriors were grim, though, and so were the druids. Weregild was paid and the matter was settled, Ardis! What did you do! One druid screamed. I settled the debt in a more appropriate manner, druid; I remember a time when I would not tolerate your kind interfering. Money is no compensation for a queen. The druid was white as a sheet. They and the others backed slowly away from Ardis. There was only one queen Blaenwys…..so this legend says….how would you know of this queen? That is impossible! Are you even of humankind? Or do you answer to a pantheon more fell and uncaring. We have no need for one who rives without a conscience. The laws must be respected by all or what law there is has no effect. You have sundered your own existence from your misdeed…..GO! He washed off the gore in the river…..they would never understand. It was a long time before he really did…_

Lyonal had been pushed to the limit. No more running. He would kill whoever was waiting for him and flee. The figure emerged out of the shadows. Lyonal exhaled a sigh of relief but he still had the pistol raised. "Amanda?" She was dressed head to foot in black! The coat she wore could not fully hide what appeared to be a sword on her back, though. "Why do you have a sword as well? Come to think of it, why are you here?" He cocked the pistol.

"Lyonal! What are you doing? Who else has a sword? I heard gunfire, and I wanted to make sure Gwyneth was okay? Where is she?" Her voice raised a notch.

"I DON"T KNOW," Lyonal screamed out in a voice on the edge of hysteria. "There were shots fired all over the place! Someone is after me; someone you would not even imagine!" He sniggered. He looked at Amanda with the glittering light of madness. "He gets up no matter how many times you shoot him then he decapitates people with a sword! I saw it! "He giggled. "Maybe he also gives them the last rites as well?"

Amanda looked at Lyonal. _He is tipping over the edge. An immortal? I don't sense anything! _ Lyonal, there has to be an explanation for this—"

"No way! No explanations!" He looked around like a caged animal. "I really did it this time, haven't I? He may want to kill me as well, but at least he has pursued me alone." He tossed the satchel at her feet. "You always seem to know more than I and be surer of yourself. Guard those with your life; do not let anyone have them! I am forever shut of this!" Lyonal bolted away, laughing like a maniac. His laugh was cut off forever by a steel quarrel that transpierced his skull. He slid for a short ways then lay face down on the ground, his thieving days over for good.


	18. Chapter 17

"Lyonal!" Amanda shrieked. It was no use. He was dead. She glanced down and grabbed the satchel. He made no real sense, but he also made a lot more sense then he knew. She was glad she had brought her sword with her, but rogues like her preferred to avoid a fight. She had turned and was about to flee when she felt the tingling. Then another and another and another. _What in the hell? Multiple immortals? _ They emerged from the shadows and from all directions; any escape was cut off in that instant. There were nine of them here. _Nine?_ Seven men and two women were present; all seemed nondescript looking, but the variety of weapons they held were not. One also held two mastiffs on leashes. The one holding the dogs was first to speak; they spoke as if she was not there.

"I got him with the quarrel, I did, but the crossbow needs a new string. It's broke"

"At least you got him. It is good she sent us here, then, else he would have escaped. Where are the items he had?"

"I wonder what is keeping her now. And where are those others she called? They should know better to ignore a summons"

"No matter," one of the females said, "We got what we were seeking, let her deal with it. This one is holding the items, for a short time anyways!" The female giggled as she raised an axe.

Amanda tried to edge away and escape the area, but one of the men raised a long spear. "I think ye are gonna stay put, missy, so as the missus can chat with ye. Ye might be able to dodge the spear, but not Charlie's mastiffs, no way and no how."

"Who in hell are you, and why did you kill my friend?" As scared as Amanda was, she was also livid with rage. "Nine immortals? This is not fair!"

"And if ye draw that sword, ye will get the mastiffs as well, milady."

"That's a shame; ye shouldn't be keepin' friends like that; they tend to wind up dead when they interfere overmuch," one of the females spoke sarcastically. "And what do you mean fair. We are not here to fight you for what you have there; we will simply kill you when we choose." She tittered, the mace she carried clanking as her body shook. "Actually, there are ten of us."

Amanda stepped backwards, spun, and lunged as fast as she could for an opening she had seen earlier, but another immortal easily tripped her up with a pike he held. She rolled with the jarring impact with the ground and quickly stood erect again. The good news was that she had no more of them behind her. The bad news was she was boxed in against what appeared to be a sheer wall with no seeming way to climb. Then she heard someone coming down a flight of stairs at a sedate sort of pace. They stopped at the bottom then turned around.

"Well done, people, well done! The woman spoke in a thick contralto brogue. The woman then faced Amanda. "Now, where do you think you are going with those?" Her green eyes had sort of a twinkle to them.

Amanda gasped….."Gwyneth? Is that you?"

… _A sword of dark metal that whistled as it slew its foes_…_I know you…_she screamed. Slowly, her surroundings came into focus. _The pain!_ But even that was receding rapidly. A set of green eyes snapped open in fear and confusion. _Was it a dream? Was it?_ Her shirt was soaked in blood and there were three holes in it. She suddenly had a coughing fit. Something was stuck in her throat. She spat out a something, then two more something's. Three mangled bullets. Then she made the mistake of looking around her. Blood spattered everything. There was no reason to wonder why. Five people had been butchered here. She remembered the pain then the blackness…then the pain. She covered her mouth with her hands and whimpered, her eyes as wide as could be. _She should have died from her wounds._ The bullets had probably ricocheted into her. _But I have no wounds?_ _ Look at my dwelling , though! And why aren't there any police here?_ What would she say to them, anyways? She made up her mind that instant. She had to get away from here fast. Her blood soaked shirt could not be helped. And where was Lyonal? And …_where was that Monk! He did all this! He killed these people and he intended to kill me too! But I am not dead, but I should be! _ She would go and find Amanda. She would help her she hoped; she realized that she was the one friend she really had, regardless of what she did for a living. Soon, the charnel house was silent.

_That is Gwyneth!_ Amanda looked closer. There was something different about this one, but she sure looked like Gwyneth. "The woman spoke. "No, that is not my name. My name is not important to you, youngling." The woman laughed. _Her teeth are all canines! What is going on! _ _She looks exactly like Gwyneth!_ Her reverie was cut short by the woman yet again, though. "What is important is that your dear departed friend had something which belongs to me now. He was tasked to retrieve what is in that satchel. You have it in hand, and I think you should give it over….NOW!" Her expression had gone from pleasant to homicidal in a flat fell second.

This was the absolute wrong way to get anything from Amanda. Maybe it was her pre-immortal hardscrabble life, but not even Duncan ordered her around like that. She glared at the woman, then figuring out options. The other immortals were the biggest problem; they could take her head while she was not looking. This woman, however, could not be an immortal. They all could be sensed, and she could not. Amanda sidled over slowly until she had the red haired woman between the others. That took care of one issue. Now, to provoke this female into a rash move. "He gave them to me. What good would some trinkets be to you anyways, bitch? You want them, come and get them." Amanda dropped the satchel on the ground and smirked in an unfriendly manner. She watched the woman's face go livid. _It worked! I provoked her! _ Now Amanda got ready regarding her focus…

They all heard the singing; some type of ballad or lament perhaps, but the language was not understandable. The red haired woman reacted though; her smug countenance was replaced by a look of fear or like the look of a caged animal. The language was almost musical in its utterance, but it stopped abruptly when the singer appeared. Amanda and the others looked as one in the direction of the voice. A figure in monastic garb slowly walked out of the shadows, streaks of lightning washing up and down his frame. Even hooded, his rage seemed palpable.

He had found the corpse in no short order; a shame that someone else killed the thief, but it was all the same. They were dead; he gave the corpse a few savage kicks, but Lyonal was dead. He heard the noise up ahead even before he felt it. Brother Timothy felt it all right, and this was not one immortal…_this was a group!_ He had to balance his possible joy of finding all those he sought in one place with restraint, though. They could overwhelm him en masse. He decided to slowly reveal himself at the same time he was ascertaining who was present; singly or in pairs, they would be no match for him. Then he felt not just a jolt…but a _JOLT_! There was only one sort of fellow immortal who registered like that…and now _they_ were aware of _him! _ Try as he might, though, there was one thing he could not hide. There were too many immortals in addition to that _one_. Quickening fire made a visible display across his body….mostly coming from the sword, but crackling around his figure like it was alive...his expression of middling irritation was now replaced with a look of homicidal rage he had only really evinced when he was DarkSword….

The Monk slowly walked into the area where the others were. Bluish lightning crackled up and down his frame. He was hooded, so his face was hidden. _Is that the same one, _Amanda thought, thinking about events earlier. Then the monk stopped. A tingling touched Amanda. _He is immortal!_ Then she felt like she needed to vomit. She fell to her knees and gasped. _What is happening!_ She looked and saw others staggering; some falling, others vomiting their guts out on the ground. The red haired woman was unaffected, but Amanda noticed she was …_fearful?_ ..and she was backing away from the monk as she gestured the others forward. The others were too busy being sick to obey any command though. Why would she be fearful, there were nine immortals there plus the woman. Her mentor had even said that fear was understandable regarding some immortals…the sort you never wanted to meet…OH NO! OH MY GOD NO!...

**England 1350 A.D.**

…_Amanda was good friends with her mentor. She had rescued her from her former life and educated her. Most notably, she had taught her how to use a sword to defend herself. They were riding their horses through what should have been a well populated area, but it was only populated by the dead. A charnel house stench assaulted their nostrils where ever they ventured; The Black plague wracked the land. No one was left alive to tend to the dead. It struck them as odd when they approached St. Albans, though. The air __seemed to be free of that stench, even if hardly anyone was there. It seemed that all the dead were buried? This would be interesting to see. They wended their way through several graveyards before they found signs of activity. A lone monk was digging graves. A pile of corpses were on a cart. They rode nearer to the monk and hailed them. They both dismounted their steeds to rest._

"_How are you this day, Brother?" Her mentor asked._

"_I am fine, but they are all dying. Not a thing can I do, either. They never listen or learn." The Brother had not paused in his digging while he spoke. "Soon, I will be out of space here, and will have to find more."_

"_How long have you been here doing this?" Amanda asked._

"_Since it started last year….no one else to do it." _

_Her mentor looked very strange. She jostled Amanda and bade her look. Graves were neatly spaced as far as the eye could see. A sea of plague corpses, and this monk was not ill? She then looked at the pile of corpses to be buried. It was a rather large pile. Amanda's mentor cringed at the thought of how much labor this required._

"_Why are you not ill with the plague then?"_

_The monk suddenly stopped shoveling dirt with such a quick motion it caused both of the women's horses to shy away slightly. "Perhaps I am like you; so the others thought. They learned their lesson though. Some of us wish to be left alone." It was then that they noticed two of the corpses nearby; they had no heads. The monk stood regarding them silently; their neutral sounding voice suddenly sounded cold and deadly._

_The dead bodies did not quite register upon Amanda, though she saw them. "Are you one of us, then? If so, why can't we—ow!" Something had jolted her! She heard the snarl of a curse and a sound like sandpaper. Only her agility saved her from losing her head. The monk had drawn a massive sword and was moving at an unholy speed!_

"_Amanda, Run! Run like hell!" By reflex alone, she jerked her horse's head around then kicked her horse into a canter. Then it hit her. The monk was immortal! But this sensing made her want to gag and scream and crawl inside herself and die…..finally the sensation passed, but they were over a rise a good distance from the Monk. What in the hell was that? I thought we could sense each other? I have not told you all, Amanda, because I didn't think any of those were around, let alone in a Monastery. What do you mean by those? The conversation aided in ignoring the charnel house stench that once again invaded their nostrils. There are some immortals of vast power out there, Amanda. No one knows from where they came. They can do things we can't. One is to mask themselves from others. They are very dangerous if provoked; sometimes even if not provoked. Then how did you know? We were lucky. He shocked you with quickening fire before he could draw his sword. That was the jolt you felt. The ill feeling was the signature of the power they wield. I only know what my mentor told me long ago. They have taken so many heads, they evince quickening fire across their frame; it is said they can even use it as a weapon. Some speak in archaic tongues long dead if angered; allegedly because it was the first they ever learned. Some carry unique weapons and armor. Most all are disdainful of the Christian god. They are best left alone; none of us would be able to stand against them in a fight. Why is that? They come from a time when diplomacy was the exception, not the rule; some say they were of a time when fell havoc reigned._

_Promise me, Amanda that you will run if you ever see one! Please! You are a good friend. Okay…I promise…._

…_sorry, mentor, but I can't run at the moment._ For the first time in well over 1000 years, Amanda knew fear. There was no doubt about it in her mind as she remembered. This monk and the one she had seen so long ago were _the same!_ She still might have a chance to save her head, though, because the monk was looking only at the red haired female. He was seemingly focused on her. She had not been affected by that tingling, so that meant she was mortal, _who runs around and commands immortals! No Way! _The other, true answer she did not like…lightning, albeit not as prodigiously as the monk, cascaded from her as well…S_HIT! Two of those here?_ The red haired woman only seemed to have eyes for the monk as well. Maybe she could get the hell out of here now, and piss her pants later. The monk spoke first, but in an unrecognizable language, the same in which he sang earlier; it was duotonal, almost singsong, going up and down with predictable regularity.

"Why should I not be surprised to find one of you here?" The monk paused for a moment. "Bronwyn Ap Hwywd. It has been so long since we last met; it really is of no matter though, the visages of those of you left alive are burned into my memory."

"As if you would care…DESTROYER!"

"I am the destroyer? You are the defilers and the corrupters. You chose to violate the laws that were laid down for ALL to obey! Were it not for your guards, you would not be alive to grate upon my vision and hearing."

"I am here now, though; soon you will meet your end and what you held over us for so long will plague us no more! We will be forever free of you!"

"At least you think that, but we shall see. The thief does not seem to be the sort to be your acolyte."

"A meddling youngling is all; she will be taken care of tonight, and you as well if you interfere! Once we found a mortal one of our clan alive, it was easy to make him to do our bidding!"

"Just like you and yours have always been…you were the ones that violated any such rules laid down, but we were blamed for the destruction that was necessary to rectify things. You have as much admitted a deliberate violation of the truce that was forged and visited death upon my abode for no reason except to provoke. Congratulate yourself for the short time you will be alive: you have succeeded regarding your goal. This time, though, you will feel my fury. I will not stop until you are all dead, every one of you."

"That was no truce! You scribed blackmail in those tomes, you bastard!"

"And you wrote your own death warrant when you heeded not the laws under which Anon and Hwywd were part. You and yours have provoked me….for the very last time…now there will be an end to this one way or another, no matter how many people you hold in thrall; no matter how many I have to kill; no matter how much blame is placed upon me for the destruction that will occur."

"Yes, the last time! You know what will happen if you interfere! We will take your head then no one will be in our way!" "She smirked and looked at her acolytes. Most had recovered; none looked professional grade.

"Interfere…in what? It seems that even now you are largely clueless. You and yours have no idea what it means to provoke me. If you think your puerile younglings will protect you,, you are also sadly mistaken. Who will protect them…FROM ME!" Brother Timothy shrugged back his robe to reveal the hilt of his sword. He momentarily smirked when Bronwyn stepped _away_ from him. The insanity in her eyes was trumped by the malice in his.

"You will NEVER win, DESTROYER! We have more help than we ever did, and you are a puerile weakling not worth the effort—"

"You are in error to ever call me weak; enough of the dead have made that mistake. After you and the rest of your foul ilk are dead, along with any of yours that get in the way, this matter will be settled. The hunt is on again, and I will hunt you all down, regardless of any now sundered 'rules'. King's Justice is an onerous task and the sentence imposed was death…HAVOC! DEATH TO AP HWYWD!"

_What in hell were they saying?_ Amanda did her best to understand, but to no avail. There were few gestures exchanged between them; one time the monk canted his head towards her. The discussion became more heated as woman and monk argued. She was the one screaming louder, though. The monk's voice was growing icier and icier. He had shrugged back his robes to reveal a pommel of a sword. _But there are nine of them besides her! This is insane! _ That monk might get them both killed. She had to get away fast. But they were through talking in that singsong tongue. She heard something like "Arvach! Dowdy on Ap Hwywd!" Just before the monk reached both hands around his shoulder and drew. With a noticeable whistling sound, he drew a _massive!_ sword. _My god, that's as long as I am tall almost! _ _We are dead though, or he is….no way one can fight nine and hope to win. _ Bluish lightning crackled from his frame and struck several of the immortals near him, knocking a few down. Her mentor had not told her what she herself did not know. Civilization was only a relatively recent invention in the human lexicon. For millennia beforehand, it was not something of note. These were immortals that came of age in that cataclysmic time. The red haired woman did not have a sword, but her acolytes attacked the monk, or attempted this task. The mace the one woman had was ripped out of her hand by a cut. _He wields that like a stick! _The acolytes closed in on the monk to protect the woman, but it seemed that they needed protecting more. The sword plus the monks reach was superior to all but the spearman and pike woman as he turned into a blur of brown and black doom. A whistling slash decapitated _two immortals at once! _ Quickening fire erupted, _BUT THE MONK WAS NOT AFFECTED BY IT! _ He still battled as the lightning soaked into his body and left, armored hand. An axe came down on his left arm, but no severed arm…a crack as the axe _shattered on something! _ Then she saw a sword maneuver she knew: The three flowers or Tres Flores. _You execute that with three sword cuts, not by shifting the hilt! _ The result was even more devastating due to the weight of his sword. Two more died and the third was wounded. It was time to leave, now, though. Four of the nine were dead in a moment's time, followed by both of the mastiffs. Something knocked her to the ground, momentarily stunning her. It was the red haired woman. She had no sword in her hand; it had been knocked loose as Amanda's had been, but she shrieked and scratched and clawed at Amanda. She was mad now! The red woman's maniacal attack was met with well placed savate and karate blows that rocked her back on her feet. Amanda looked at the monk for a second. _Only three of the nine were left standing, and one was wounded severly! _Quickening fire crackled all over the place; it ran up the walls, shattering windows. The monk ignored it, though. The woman grabbed the satchel and tried to flee, but Amanda kicked her to the ground. She now lost track of all but this woman clawing at her.

_I should have known! Dougal warned me but I was not concerned! He has showed up! _ Bronwyn may have sounded defiant in speech, but deep down she was scared with good reason. The monk would kill her in a second; she was no match for his prowess. One by one and sometimes by two's, her acolytes died. Blood and quickening lightning was everywhere. He was screaming out the battle song she knew only so well…the one he sang as he butchered his way through their Clan House. Now this interloper youngling was fighting her for that satchel! She would kill this bitch! What the youngling lacked in years she made up for in experience, though. Bronwyn had shredded the younglings' clothes, but her kicks and punches hurt. They rolled around in the alley, punching and kicking each other with full fury. The younglings top had been torn open; a pert breast bobbled there as they struggled. _Food!_ Dougal had warned her about _food _and modern day society's ban against it, but once too often, that bare breast bobbed too close. Bronwyn bit into it, her sharpened teeth drawing runnels of blood as she chewed and masticated at the flesh, trying to tear it free.

Amanda screamed. This woman had bitten her! No, she was trying to eat her! Oh god, the pain! She pummeled the woman's head, kicked at her body; it was no use. This bitch was HURTING HER! She cried out again as this…. thing worked loose a mouthful of her flesh. THIS CAN NOT BE HAPPENING! Her flailing hand struck something hard and metal, hurting her hand. Her sword! Despite the waves of unbelievable pain coursing through her, she grasped its hilt. She would kill this BITCH no matter what happened. The woman ripped a chunk of Amanda's flesh free in a welter of blood. Amanda convulsed at the agony, but the woman made her last mistake. She lifted up her head as she chewed and tore at the piece of Amanda. She vaguely remembered the monk coming towards her as she struck once, then again. The woman's head rolled on the ground as her body keeled over, but not before soaking Amanda in a welter of blood. Then all went deathly quiet. She cried as the pain from her wound. She slowly looked around. _He killed them ALL! And the dogs too! Poor little homicidal doggies! She laughed as tears flowed freely down her face as she screamed at the pain as she clutched the now filthy satchel to her…its mine…all mine…..her eyes glittered…_


	19. Chapter 18

_That youngling fool had killed an Ap Hwywd! _ Brother Timothy saw the torn flesh on the youngling. _Looks like her appetite did Bronwyn in._ He laughed as he looked at the youngling, but then he grew grim. This had _never_ happened as far as he could recall. Perhaps it was luck; perhaps not. But now there was going to be hell to pay. Already he could hear the rumblings coursing through the ground. White sparks shot up what was left of the buildings here as a glow as bright as daylight flowed from Bronwyn's corpse. He would have tried to grab the satchel, but the youngling was cradling it in her arms while she rocked on the ground, giggling and chortling. This would not be a quickening as any youngling would describe it. Any of the Ap Hwywd's had an enormous amount of power…even if Bronwyn was one of the weaker ones, it would be a quickening storm. He stared at Amanda for a moment, and then shook his head. _Thwarted again! And this time, a youngling had interfered! _ He spoke loud enough to be heard over the rising crescendo. "You and I are not through yet, youngling! I will retrieve my items somehow; and now you will pay the price for interference!" In a moment, Amanda was alone.

Her world went white…a brilliant white. Amanda was picked up like a rag doll and tossed about in the rubble. The quickening was _strong! _Not only was it disorienting, it was painful. A plethora of images flooded her consciousness. She was in on a grassy vale; she was riding away on a horse. Figures in robes chanted at her, but what they said was gibberish. She screamed as part of a wall collapsed onto her, shattering her arm…everywhere was lightning and pictures and gibberish and pain…pain that hammered through her like a symphony. She was tossed around as bolt after bolt of lightning jolted into her….

She lay face down on the ground. With supreme effort she rolled over. If this had been the place where she was before, it didn't look it. _There was nothing left! _ She knew a quickening was damaging to an extent, but she lay in a flat area with almost no detritus. As she arose, he body jolted in pain. She looked down to see a raw looking wound on her breast, its edges red-rimmed. Slowly, she managed to stand. In her left hand she clutched a filthy satchel _What is this?_ She shrugged and looked at her right hand. It held a bloody sword. Something seemed stuck to the sword and her right arm, but she paid it no mind. She was not aware of much; there was a lot of noise around, but she just kept walking. The few people that saw her stayed well away from the woman soaked in blood and bleeding from a laceration. What clothing she wore was shredded. Her left hand clutched a filthy satchel and her right held a bloody sword. A severed head trailed along after her, attached to her by copious amounts of red hair… The reason that she was not noticed was a result of the quickening that had assailed her. It was fortunate that many people were out on the town that night, or the death toll would have been higher than 83. A square city block had been leveled.

Some time later, while it was still dark, Amanda stopped walking. Here was where she needed to be. Slowly and painfully she made it to the door and knocked. Even the tingling sensation that should have made her alert failed to snap her out of her walking catatonia.

Duncan was a light enough sleeper so that he heard the second string of taps at his door. _Who the hell could that be at this hour? _The tingling sensation told him _another immortal?_ His katana was firmly gripped in his right hand as he edged towards the door. "Who is it?" There was no replyl. He adjusted the katana so that it was crossways across his chest, as to have the chance to deflect any possible blow, and wrenched open the door. Amanda stool there, weaving and glassy eyed with shock. She was covered head to foot in filth and gore and her clothes were shredded beyond repair. A deep laceration was on her chest just above her breast, and the edges of the wound were bright red with possible infection. In one hand she clutched a filthy satchel; in the other, her sword hung limply at her side. She stepped forward and something clattered behind her. It looked like a severed head.

"Duncan, can you tell Dawson I will be indisposed, so I will not have time to talk. Is it morning yet?" She collapsed face down across his doorway, her sword clattering to the floor. It _was_ a severed head that was with her; it was attached to her by numerous strands of what looked like red hair.

Duncan was used to anomalies; he and his kind _were_ anomalies. Here he was faced with yet another one. His friend, Amanda, was in bad shape. From the looks of things, she had been involved in a _war_, not a swordfight. _Did she fight another immortal?_ Even at the worst of things, you didn't show up carrying a satchel and dragging a severed head behind you. There would be time for answers later, he hoped. The first thing on his mind was spin control. He easily pulled Amanda into the hallway and shut the door. He noticed a lot of sirens off in the distance. _Well, at least she had been able to get away. Did anyone see her, though?_ The next task was to get her out of sight. The sword he set aside. He had a devil of a time getting the satchel loose from her left hand , though. The severed head was a whole new level of gruesome, though. _I should remind Amanda about not bringing home mementos of her battles._ He laughed at his black humor, but what should he do with the head? Whoever it was, she had been pretty. The hair was a fiery red color. As sick as it sounded, he decided to keep the item for the meanwhile. He set it in a freezer after wrapping it in plastic bags. He then carried Amanda into a shower where he tenderly washed away the filth that covered her. Her clothing was a ruin; he set that aside to be disposed of as soon as possible. There _was_ a brutal laceration on her chest. It was on her left side, just above her nipple. The edges were a bright red and he could see tendrils of the same color radiating from the wound. _It was not healing! For all intents and purposes, it was like a wound a mortal would suffer!_ We heal quickly and we do not get sick! She was not healing and she felt feverish. After she was clean, he carried her to his spare bedroom and laid her on the bed. The angry looking laceration seemed to glare at him in its incongruity. As best as he was able, he covered the wound in gauze. There was nothing more that he could do in this case. He burned what was left of her clothing in the fireplace. If there had been a quickening, he would assuredly find out from Dawson in the morning. He lay down and went back to sleep, but in his mind, he was thinking. _What in hell did you get involved in now Amanda?_

He awoke again only moments later, though. The insistent chime of a cell phone was to blame. It wasn't his phone ringing though. It was Amanda's. _I wonder who that could be? _His expression was anything but pleasant as he opened the unit and toggled the on switch. "Hello. It is five in the morning, so this had better not be a crank call."

"Amanda? Are you there? Who is this?" The voice was female and it sounded as if it was in a bad state.

"This is Duncan, Amanda's friend. More importantly, who is this?"

"Its Gwyneth and I have to talk to Amanda! Something really bad as happened and something else I can't explain also!" Her voice was approaching hysteria.

"Amanda showed up here an hour or two ago, but she has been seriously hurt. She is sleeping now. Can't this wait until later?" He was tempted to cut off the connection and turn off the phone.

"No it can't! You are going to think I am crazy, but I got shot and I died. Then I awoke with no wounds and whole again. That monk came back and killed five other people to get at Lyonal. I think Lyonal is dead too!" There was the sound of weeping on the other end.

Duncan was now fully awake. What she had just said would have been enough to get her placed in evaluation. It was fortunate that she was preaching to the choir in this case. _Gwyneth is immortal! _ "Where are you now? I can get you and bring you to Amanda."

"I don't know about that. Maybe I will wait until she is well. I have to—"

"You need to be here, now! You do not realize it, but you are in a lot of danger, at least until some basic things are explained. And they CAN'T be explained over a cell phone!" After he got her location, he hung up and brewed himself some strong coffee. There would be no more rest today.

He had one devil of a time navigating. Police swarmed everywhere, along with not a few members of the military. Roadblocks were up and detours abounded as well. _I wonder what happened?_ As he approached his destination, he could see the wreckage. _ It was probably some sort of terrorist attack._ He would probably read about it in the news. Just before he reached where he was headed, there was a checkpoint set up; no one was getting through without an ID check. He finally got through that then he arrived. The damage did not look like a regular explosion, though. It seemed to radiate in its entirety from a point up ahead. He could see a number of white-suited figures in the distance, but what was much closer was a serious looking military barricade manned by serious looking soldiers. He scanned the area, but saw no one that looked like Gwyneth. Then he heard a tap on the passenger side window. A figure draped in some sort of filthy blanket was there; protruding from under it, though, was a lock or two of fiery red hair. He opened the door. "Get in and stay down. It looks like something bad happened here, less questions, the better."

"What in hell is going on?" Gwyneth's blood-spattered, tear-streaked face poked out from under the blanket, her blue eyes luminous looking and wide with fear.

"We need to get you settled and cleaned up, first; then I will explain." Duncan had a feeling, though. This was not going to be good. As a harbinger of such, his cell phone chattered its annoying song.

_This will do as well as any, I suppose._ After getting well away from the carnage, Brother Timothy had easily found a place to stay. It was a rather seedy sort of area stocked with a wide range of human vermin, but the place was clean. _It also helps that the proprietor of this place prefers not to know anything but the value of the coin paid him, too. _First, he cleaned his robe of the stains it acquired. Next, he did the same with his soiled underclothes. While the robe was drying, he took a shower. Even though his outside demeanor seemed glacially calm, inside, his thoughts roiled. Two attempts had been made to retrieve the stolen items, and two times he had been thwarted. The thief who took them was now very dead, but now there were further complications. _Whoever thought that a youngling could kill one of us!_ Bronwyn had given into her perversion, though, and that was the cause of her demise. Of the ones remaining, she had had the least amount of power, but still way beyond any other of these younglings. _Did she survive the quickening?_ Unless another one was present there, she possibly did. He had left only corpses before he departed, and the end result of the destruction would be no one really around to kill her. _Will she survive its after effects?_ That was much more of a concern not only to him, but to all in general. Immortals such as him did not simply have _power_; they had memories and knowledge alien to humankind, with few exceptions. As of this very moment, though, there would no longer be a simple solution to the matter; even if he recovered the items, one of the bastards was now very dead. That fact produced two possible outcomes. The woman either went insane and their head would be taken by another youngling, thus possibly causing more insanity, or they would survive it; as to which scenario occurred, it would largely depend on how seasoned the woman was. Even if that occurred, they would be a free and open target for any Ap Hwywd left alive. And with that much power, would they be a benefit or a detriment to humankind? He would keep his eyes open for the youngling. Another item to now be addressed, since it now looked like open battle once again, was were any of his friends still around? _Are you happy now? _He yelled at the voice in his head chuckling with glee. _Nineteen dead already by my own hand, and you still scold me that I am a coward? _It was a different, more sorrowful voice that answered him, though. _You did not need to kill the people you have killed; you could have handled it in another way. What way would that be! _he snapped back at the voice. He stifled the internal turmoil for the moment; now was not a time to have a conscience. His former cohort could not really be called friends in the truest sense; but they and he shared a common goal, at least they used to: extermination of the Ap Hwywd's for one reason or another. He had had no time to poke around and search for them, though. He would have to assume that they all had perished. Maybe that youngling would help if needed,…_if she survived!_ _If she does, then she will get to deal with the Daoine….they never tolerated interlopers….._He laughed his bitter laugh….

**Future Area of England c.a. 900 B.C.**

_….he no longer looked the part of a savage. His hair was tied back with a leather band and neatly groomed. He wore leather now instead of furs, and well tooled but lightweight boots shod his feet. He was just padding along a game trail when he felt it. Even though he was masked, the tingling had sliced through it as if not even there! Without either thought or losing stride, his sword whistled into his palm from his draw. There was no reason to even think there would be parley. He slowed, and then stopped. There was the sound of swords! Cautiously, he looked upon a clearing where two beings were involved in swordplay, but it looked like sparring versus combat. Upon seeing Ardis, one of the two combatants broke away and ran into the trees. It had seemed to him that the other spoke to them first. Then the other turned to face him. Ardis was in shock! It was a Daoine! Are all humans seemingly ready to kill at a drop of a glove, the Daoine said in a sing-song language Ardis had almost forgotten. Olden-Tongue! He speaks Olden-Tongue! But how could this be? He had to find out. I am inclined to think that those such as us do not meet to parley, but rather to fight. I am Ardis Ap Anon of Clan Anon. I know who you are; I would have thought you would be least inclined toward human ways. As if the Daoine ever gave a shit about any of us. Even at Temair, they were never inclined to treat with us. I am Clywd Ip Hear'n of the Dannan Clan Hear'n. I see no reason for us to battle, since we both have a common foe of sorts. What of the other that ran off? She will do as I say to a large extent, but she especially hates humankind; it was you that effected in large part the extermination of her fellows. A Pict immortal? Something of that sort, yes. It would be a pity if she and you came to blows, a serious pity. Maybe some other time you two may meet without as much fell animosity, but I had to restrain her even now. Fair enough….but what is a Tuatha De Dannan doing here? No others I have seen? I did not bother joining the diaspora from Temair shortly after you left. It made no sense to me even if the world these days makes less and less sense. My sparring partner is all I have left. I would wish us to be friends as well as we can. We may even yet find the rest of the Ap Hwywd's and their ilk? Clywd smiled as best as one of his kind could, but Ardis knew that the smile had no meaning. The Daoine, or the Tuatha as they called themselves, had been doomed with the advent of mankind. They would shake their heads at these human savages at times, but they lacked some things that humans did not. They did not breed as well. They had some sort of race memory, but were unable to improve upon anything they had learned. Some emotions they had were strong, but only if focused. Their basic trains of thought were scattershot. They had relied on this race memory as a means to hold on to their superiority, and as such, disdained the written word only as a source of amusement. Such emotions as love and such concepts as a conscience were not present in any full blooded Daoine. Their race memory was no match to human's fecundity and the ability to improve and adapt on what they had learned. Then came the general age of iron, a fell metal in a Daoine's eye. They were doomed and they had known this for a long, long time….._

**Near Glen Finnan, Scotland 1554**

…_.He sat down on a rock and thought as he stuffed his face with food. Duncan MacLeod was not the thinking type, so that made this process all the harder. Let's see, he thought. I was mortally wounded on that battlefield. I died. I know I did. Then I healed. He had thought it a miracle from God. His clan did not think so, though. They had driven him away, cursing him as been possessed by the devil, like the other MacLeod of legend. It made no sense to him! It made his head hurt thinking about it! He decided it was no matter. He was hurt that his clan had driven him away, but somehow, he would make an existence for himself. He reached for more of his kill when he heard the step of a foot from beyond the shadows of his fire. Who is there? Show yourselves now! Only silence greeted him. I am warning you right now I am not in the best of moods! If you are friend you will show yourself, but if you are one of those bastards that drove me away, I will send you to hell! Still there was silence. He arose from his seat and wielded his sword. Then the maker of the noise strode out into the light. Is that anyway to greet your cousin, Duncan? I am Connor MacLeod. Connor MacLeod? That's only some child's fairy tale used to frighten them into silence! No, it is not a fairy tale. I bet that you are probably pretty confused as I was once, right? Maybe I am, maybe I am not? What of it? Well, you want some answers, and I have them, but it may take some getting used to…_

Duncan quickly hustled Gwyneth inside his place as soon as they were there. He gave the outside area a cursory glance. _Good, no one seems to be around._ Once they both were inside, he took the filthy blanket from Gwyneth and bade her take a shower. She was all for that idea. She changed into some clean clothes that she had with her, while Duncan disposed of her ruined blouse and slacks the same way he disposed of Amanda's clothing. Finally they both were seated at a table. Despite the shower and some coffee, Gwyneth still looked a bit pale. Her eyes were as wide as they could be; even more so after they saw Amanda. Amanda was thrashing about on her bed, skin flushed with fever and bathed in sweat. The gauze that covered her wound was soaked through with blood. She was mumbling in some strange tongue. Then they had returned to the table.

"I am thinking of a place to start. I have done this before, but it always seems to be a new experience with each person."

"Done what? And what happened to Amanda?" She sounded concerned.

"I don't know yet what happened to Amanda. I will find out, though. What –"His cell phone interrupted him with its chime, but when he impatiently answered it, the line was dead. He glowered at the device. "This is the fifth time this morning it has done that. Oh well." He put the device away. "What is more important is you. You are one of us now, and as such, there are some things you need to know."

"Us? Who is 'us'?"

"Amanda and I, for starters. There are numerous others as well. Did you feel a sort of tingling when you were near my car?"

"Yes, come to think of it, I did. What is that?"

"It is how you will know others of your kind."

She shook her head, "Others of my kind? I do not understand."

"Most humans are born, grow up, grow old, and then die. We do not grow old or die. You, I and Amanda are immortal." He said this with no trace of humor. He said it as if it were a simple statement of fact.

Gwyneth giggled. "That I know is impossible! That simply can not be!"

"You have one of the biggest pieces of proof. You said you died in that apartment, but when you came to it was as if you awoke in pain. It takes some time to sink in, but it is the truth." At her silence, he continued. "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. I was born in 1536. Amanda is even older."

"If this is really true, how can this –"

"No one really knows. You are fortunate in a way. Many of us only found this out through much hardship."

"You mean I can go back to my job in Wales and study what I am studying forever?"

Duncan smiled, but there was a melancholy look on his face. "Your old life is now dead to you. You can not go back to it. That is why we needed to talk. There are other things you need to know." As best as Duncan knew how, he explained to Gwyneth about her new existence…..

As much of a shock that Gwyneth had, compared to her, Amanda was not having an easy time...she thrashed in fever sleep….

…_The images did not simply assail her. It was as if they almost raped her mind. She was reborn, crawling out from under a pile of corpses. She sparred with her mentor. She absconded with some artwork she had taken. Those were of no consequence. Then more came. She was playing on a green vale, so green it hurt. She chopped off the head of something…inhuman…and reveled in the quickening. A Monk riving through nine immortals as if they were not armed, BUT THEY WERE! That simply WAS NOT possible! This she had observed, though. There was no way to deny it. She viewed a dwelling of a strange sort. Its entranceway was choked with corpses. Man, woman, and child…all slaughtered. A woman lay dead out in front. She looked LIKE THE ONE THAT HAD attacked her! Exactly like her! She thought that she would be sick from the carnage; she only barely kept her sanity. She zoomed in on another vale where a red haired woman sat. The woman was surrounded by bits and pieces of …CHILDREN! HACKED APART, BUTCHERED CHILDREN! The woman turned towards her; she once again looked like her attacker. Her lower face dripped with fresh blood. She was EATING A CHILDS ARM! Then the woman smiled at Amanda. Welcome to my nightmare, youngling. The woman cheerfully vomited a torrent of blood all over Amanda. Amanda screamed until she could not scream anymore….._

Amanda jolted awake. She seemed in all respects normal, unless you looked at her eyes. They seemed dead for all extents. She managed to stand up, gasping from the ache and pain of her unnatural wound. She was going to take the satchel to her brother. Dougal would be so pleased! Then she could have _food! Scrumptious. Delectable, food!_ Amanda vomited a stream of bile at that thought. She was going, though. She made it out of the bedroom to the main area. Look, there was Duncan! Why did he look so strange, though? It was as if he was horrified or shocked. And he had someone with him. Another one of her siblings! Amanda smiled at her. She walked over and set the filthy satchel at her siblings' feet. "Here, you take this to Dougal. He will know what to do with it." She was happy at doing her duty. But something was wrong… Amanda became aware. She was dressed in one of Duncan's shirts. Duncan was saying something to her, but she could not understand. He was with a woman who…resembled someone. _My sibling! _ No, not a sibling. A friend? Her wound twinged enough so she gasped. _NO, THAT IS NOT A FRIEND! SHE ATTACKED ME AND TORE OFF A PIECE OF ME TO EAT! _ She screamed a sting of curses at this foul flesh-eating bitch that dared come back for another bite of me! No way was that going to happen. She had her hands around this bitch's throat. She would choke the life from her…kill her…._You can not kill my sibling, youngling!_ I will kill this foul thing ..I will kill them all! Thankfully, she sank into darkness.

It had taken all of Duncan's strength to pry Amanda loose from Gwyneth. Amanda then passed out on the floor. He tenderly carried her back to where she had been before, and then returned. Gwyneth was weeping softly, her head cradled in her hands. "She tried to kill me! What is wrong with her?"

"I don't know. Do you understand what she said? Don't you study Celtic languages?"

"I do, but I have no idea what she said. " She wiped away the tears on her face.

Duncan was loathe to touch the filthy satchel, but his interest overrode his revulsion. He reached inside it and first withdrew a silver half circlet _A crown of some sort? It is almost undecorated, and silver is not worth much._ Next , he extracted two slender books with locking clasps. There was an acrid smelling odor coming from them, it seemed to be coming from the book edges. _Poison of some sort? _He gingerly set those aside. Next was a separate pouch containing a sheet of parchment? _I haven't seen Latin scribed like that for a long time. It must be old._ He took out the last item. It was wrapped in a soft cloth. He removed the cloth and his expression of interest became positively _vulcanous! This was NOT some sort of common item! This cross may have a million dollars of gemstones stuck to it! _ He turned it over to read the Latin inscribed on it. _A papal cross! That stupid Amanda had swiped a Papal Cross! _ He looked up at Gwyneth, who cringed away at Duncan's expression. She was looking at the crown, but dropped it to the table at his glance.

"Do you know anything about these? Answer me NOW! "He banged his fist down on the table for emphasis.

"I don't under—"

"So now Amanda has a partner? You and she both stole these items?" Duncan's smirk was not of joy. "Amanda is lucky she is ill, or I would wring her GODDAMN neck! This goes beyond ANY sort of rational action. And maybe this explains why a MONK was chasing you?" He was at her side by this time, his expression livid. "Where did you two get these? And don't tell me you don't know, either! I saw you handle that crown!"

Gwyneth had had near enough of this. "HOW DARE YOU! I have never stolen a thing in my life! And Amanda did not steal them either!" Blue eyes locked with brown; two stubborn wills had come to bear on each other.

"Okay, if you or she did not take them, why did she have them in her possession?" His tone was still grim, but its volume had lessened.

"I honestly do not know why she has them. It was my cousin who stole them though. He said they were from a Monastery."

"Your cousin stole these?"

"Yes. And I am afraid for him. I haven't seen him since we were at my dwelling. "

"You have seen these items before, then?"

"Yes. I can't believe this crown—" She reached for the half circlet again, but Duncan pulled it away. His look changed to one his friends and foes knew too well. It was his baleful do-not-lie-to-me look. "I think you are going to be telling me everything you know about your cousin, Amanda, and these items." His cell phone chimed again. In disgust, Duncan shut it off. He smiled at Gwyneth, and then placed his head between his two fists. "And this had better be good."

**Verona, Italy Present Day**

_It_ capered gleefully in the ruins and destruction it had caused. It had found yet another severed arm. In a very short time, it had finished its meal. It half ran, half scampered away from the wreckage. In one hairy hand it carried a crude edged weapon which was covered in blood. It had not mattered to it that the quickening had smashed it to a pulp under a building. It simply had dug itself out. It had found one of them! They would be so happy! He had allegedly been a cook at a food place, but it knew what he was! He was one of those who would attack it if they knew that It walked around. But he would never do so again. It had snuck up behind him and cut off their head! It stood only about five feet in modern measurements, but its speed was way faster than any human. It looked like a human had been crossed with a copper-furred ape and had gained features of both. It had arms and legs; hands and feet. The hands and feet had only four appendages each. Its head was mostly covered in hair that could have been fur, and its mouth seemed frozen in a permanent grimace. Its eyes, though generally human shaped, were of a golden amber color and functioned more like a cats eyes than a humans. It was able to understand speech, albeit only Olden-Tongue. That was what it had been taught. It had an animal's cunning, but it could not or would not think rationally. Though it seemed an insult to refer to it as an IT, that was the truth; it had no gender. The Tuatha Na Dannan and the humans alive then had a name for it though. It was called a bog beast. Its origins were shrouded in time. This one had only survived because it had been smart to hide itself away. Its kind simply Were at some point in time. It was also immortal, perversion that it was. Any who saw this eldritch horror would have killed it had they been able. The bog beast would eat anything and everything under near any circumstances. Things were food, not-food, or enemy. They were afraid of nothing known. Perhaps it was because of their lack of higher intelligence, but it made them dangerous adversaries. That included any who wandered into their demesne. Those who had reached a truce with it and shared in this perversion had even given It a name of sorts. They knew the Daoine would kill this thing on sight, so it was only fitting to give it an Olden-Tongue name: Taeg. It also knew that the humans with a red mark on their wrist were dangerous as well. It had butchered a dozen of those and some timeless ones before it had killed this Timeless one. Taeg laughed aloud, a sound that was like a cross between a hyena's bark and a discordant screech. He had to find a way to cause even more destruction. After all, it was its nature. The fire-haired timeless ones had agreed it was so. His butchery plus the quickening had cost near 500 lives and many more wounded.

_…the sea of blood and charnel washed over her, soaking her in its stench. She was even beyond the ability to scream as nightmare after nightmare raped her mind. She was eating children she and the others had captured, and sometimes they were not even dead before the meal commenced. She sat with others eating their grisly repast. She reveled in the obscenities that were committed there. They had the right to do whatever they pleased, having been graced with godly timelessness. She wept yet was overjoyed when the place burned. Then the scene switched. The scene was almost pastoral, except for the graves that dotted the earth. There were around forty of them. Then she heard the singing. An ethereal beauty was apparent in the voice, but the song was sad. Tears flowed freely as she listened to the music. It was a pretty language, sing-song as it was intricate. Then she observed the singer. They were surrounded by a number of others. She approached them as she dried off her cheeks. As one, they turned to appraise her. She was in shock. You are Elves! I never knew you existed! One of them raised an eyebrow at her and smirked. So human it is to use such a nondescript, banal name. We are The Tuatha De Dannan, or as some call us, Daoine Na Sidhe. As you can see, we do exist. Or we did at one time. Another spoke, who are you? We do not know you. I am Amanda. The Daoine's demeanor suddenly became chilly. That is not a name of those who would know of us directly. What are you doing here! I don't really know. Some woman was drowning me in blood, and then I came here. What was her name? I don't know…..wait….Ap Hwywd. Bronwyn Ap Hwywd. Wait…where are you going! The Daoine were walking away and fading from view. It was hard to tell, but some seemed enraged! Wait! One Daoine stopped and turned around to address Amanda. This one had hair of snowy white and seemed the prettiest by far. The name you spoke is cursed to us. You do not belong here and do not have the right to be here! Leave us now at once and return from where you came! Then she faded away as well, leaving Amanda alone. The scene shifted again. The woman she had killed was staring at her and…laughing! You will never, ever be shut of me, youngling! See what happens when you interfere! Amanda was washed away in a torrent of blood and body parts…..Now you will either die and allow me to kill even more, or my brothers will kill you in vengeance…the woman chewed a mouthful of Amanda's flesh and swallowed. She then bent down for more….I WILL CONSUME YOU!_

"I swear to you, that is all I know." Gwyneth sighed. She was slightly more at ease, but her eyes were still wide and her body was tense. _I am not used to this._ Up until now, her life was banal and sedate. No more would that be the case. These people, those who allegedly were of her kind, were as much an assault on her psyche as not. One was unbridled malevolence; another could go from cheerful to malevolent in a heartbeat. She looked at Duncan. His expression was inscrutable at this point.

Duncan did not know what to think at this point. It was mid-afternoon already, and the effects of his interrupted slumber were beginning to show. From Amanda's room came occasional screams and bursts of that unknown language. He was at a loss as what to do regarding her. _Immortals do not get sick and do not have fevers! _ There had been that one time he had suffered the dark quickening, but he still was able to function to an extent. He decided to give his cell phone a break as well and switched it back on. Then he began to sort through the other information he now had. Gwyneth's cousin had stolen these items as payback for saving his thieving hide. Then some people tried to kill him for the items. _That monk?_ That didn't compute. As far as from what he could tell, the monk was a solitary individual. Then they went after these things again, but her cousin had fled here. The monk had killed her attackers, but had brutally beat her for her cousin's whereabouts. _The same monk who chased Amanda and Gwyneth._ Then if what Gwyneth had said was true, this monk had killed five others to get to the items and possibly their carrier, but he had escaped. , and the rest he knew. There seemed to be two factions involved. One side had stolen these items. He had no doubts in his mind about what had happened to Lyonal; he was probably dead. This did not explain why Amanda had gotten the items nor did it explain her injury or the grisly trophy she had dragged along with her. At least one common denominator he saw, though. _That bastard in monk's garb. _ Then he remembered something else. It took only a moment to dig through some recent newspapers until he found the article on the Brother's murder. _Maybe there might be some answers at that place. _It was up near St. Albans in England. _Maybe I should return these to that place?_ He decided against that for the simple reason that he did not have enough answers. He looked at Gwyneth. She had her laptop computer running and she was staring at some runes. She also was intently studying the silver half-circlet. "This is what he left on my machine. I saved it, but the last two lines do not make any sense. The rune on the circlet looks like the same type." He was going to reply, but he heard something from Amanda's room. She was thrashing on the bed, but tendrils of _quickening fire were traveling across her body! _ He made up his mind in an instant. He needed to track down a certain homicidal bastard that wore a brown robe. He knew exactly who could help him as well, but their cell phone line was not responding. Tomorrow, he would find them.


	20. Chapter 19

**Newtown, Wales, UK**

"As I said before, Dhurgal, we have to take care of some things here. That was why we could not follow that fool. Bronwyn will take care of it, I am sure. Here we are. Remember, we need this one alive and unharmed. We only have to convince him to follow the current course they have been taking." When he knocked on the door, he heard a sound like scuffling or running. "Oh, bother! Dhurgal, go around the back way and block the door, would you." Without any regard to any who could possibly be watching. Dougal punched out a pane of glass in the door and unlocked it from the inside. Once inside, he shut the door. He wrinkled his nose. _They should be better housekeepers here. _ He walked on old, wrinkled newspapers and destroyed books. He sneered and kicked over one of the volumes. Though it was faded, it still bore the Watcher symbol on its cover. He heard some noise towards the back and headed that direction. Dhurgal held pinned a rather slight looking gentleman. Even though they looked at Dougal in fear, there was some sort of defiance as well. "You have no right invading this place! I have always done what you asked!" There was defiance still in this one, Dougal thought. "We do know this, but now are especially treacherous times. We just came by to make sure the head Watcher here knew their role in this matter?" Dougal absent mindedly rubbed some dust off of a bookshelf. "You will have no contact with others of your kind by any means! And you will produce no more lists or compilations of immortals. You know what happened the last time that was tried. As a matter of fact, that was how you gained your esteemed position as head Watcher! You will abide by what we say, that is if you do not wish to be replaced." Dhurgal giggled as Dougal patted the man's cheek. "We will bid you good day, now. Also, you may want to do some housecleaning. This place looks dreadful! "They both left in high spirits, never noticing the man's baleful look he cast in their direction. _You can be assured that I will do my job, but never in the way you imagined, you bastards. I will kill you all. _

It was fortunate that no other person was around later when it struck both of them. They simply _knew_ that something had gone badly wrong in Paris. Dhurgal roared a string of obscenities. It took Dougal a supreme effort to calm him down. "It seems that we have lost our dear sister. She must have run into him there. We simply will have to kill him then, and nullify the decree." Dougal himself was close to tears. "That is all we can do! It is apparent he has lost none of his skill; you can bet that many of her followers are also dead. Our advantage has always been strength of numbers; none of us save Uncle is as well versed in his brand of havoc, though. Taeg is still alive, and I guess soon we will find Clwdweth. We no longer have a choice. Here is what you will need to do…..

Edmund Laskey may have been frail looking in body, but within a somewhat demented, homicidal framework, his mind was still there. It had been different sometime back, though; he had been hale in body as well as in spirit. He looked at the Watcher sigil on his right wrist. _This is almost the joke of all jokes! _ He was head Watcher now for this area of Wales. To any who saw the chart in his office, that would appear to be the case. The fact was that only he was alive out of all the names listed. He still cried at night when he went to sleep; it was a major effort just to get himself up some days. Up until about six years ago, it had been different. Then there had actually been some Watchers that had watched. In two horrible days, that had changed. In a stunning blow, all but him were slaughtered. This was in only 24 hours. When he came home, he found his wife and son-in-law dead from gunshots. His daughter had been brutally violated then butchered. The place had been ransacked looking for something. The police were called but no leads emerged. He had tried to contact the other Watchers, but he was contacted first by Dougal. Don't even bother, they are all dead. You will be next unless you agree to our terms. Something in him had wanted to live, so he agreed. It seemed that several of the Watchers were making a list of the known immortals in the area, Dougal and others included. That sealed their fate as far as the immortals were concerned, so the Watchers were disposed of, all except him. They made him destroy what they thought was the only copy of the list they had found while they searched. They had then forced him to stay in the house where his family had been slaughtered. By degrees, they had robbed him of all freedom of movement. His mail was checked, his phone tapped. He knew that someone was always watching. Even his computer was probably monitored, but that was of little concern to him at the moment. Their surprise visit almost cost him his project data. Too many had died for him to fail now. He knew that what he was about to do would be his death warrant, but living the way he had been for six years was no way to live. It is wise to never underestimate those in a position with nothing to lose. Edmund Laskey was one such person, and what he wanted was revenge. Yes, revenge against the Watchers for his friends who had died, but most of all, he wanted to wipe that smirk off that red-haired bastard's face and all who followed him. There actually had been more then one list made; painstaking manual data had been placed in a database, but there was the matter of getting the information to someone who could use it. He had heard them talking numerous times; he had ascertained a lot from what he had heard. The red haired bastard had compromised a lot of watcher cells by various means; as far as he knew, this had been done in order to hide immortals from people like him. He wasn't the type to stand up long under torture, but he was pragmatic enough to come up with a plan. He was not only resigned to the fact that he was already dead, but he almost would welcome it. Life held no more joy for him any longer. If he failed, then they would forever be able to force him to do what they wanted. If he succeeded though, he would have a chance to laugh at the bastards as they all roasted in hell, watcher and immortal alike. As far as he was concerned in his twisted, damaged mind, both parties were to blame for his predicament. He sniggered as he withdrew a thick cardboard box from the rubbish. It had cost him a gold ring, but it did not matter anymore. Quickly he opened a hiding place in his study. Three compact discs were extracted and packed in the box. Then he filled the box with packing material and sealed it. On one disc was a video recording of him warning whoever had the misfortune or receiving the contents. The other two discs were as complete a list that could have been compiled. He chortled as he inspected the package. All that had to happen was to have this data merged into the Watcher database. If that occurred, Dougal and those other bastards would never be safe again! There was just one more thing to do, the most riskiest part of his task. He went online and surfed to the Watcher network. He then activated his Watcher sigil icon. All he would have to do now is wait…and hope that Dougal and company would be too busy until it was too late. He drank himself into a stupor and passed out by his telephone.

Late that night in Barcelona, Methos was ready to go to bed. He was tired from the exercise he had gotten that day. _It is best to be prepared as well as I can._ He took out the short list that he had. After reading the news from Paris and Italy, he crossed off one name from each side of the list._ I sure as hell hope that Duncan took my advice and fled from there._ He knew Duncan better than that, though. He would have bet that at about this time, Duncan would be indignant and baleful, and possibly looking for a head to cut off to solve matters._ It will not be that easy, MacLeod. _ So far, things were shaping up as he predicted. Monk's ally had been slain by trickery; his enemy, though, was killed with severe prejudice from a sword edge. He laughed mirthlessly. _Along with only nine others? _ Even if the mortals were counted, that only made seventeen or so. _I wonder if that bastard has lost his edge? _ He didn't really think so for a moment. _This is just a warm up, just a preliminary to the fun and games that will occur soon._ Even as he mused on this, he saw quickening fire off in the distance. It was not a secluded location by any means.

Duncan was ever the gentleman. He had insisted Gwyneth sleep on his bed while he took the couch. He was well enough rested, though groggy when his cell phone chimed. He glowered at the device and activated it, expecting yet another hang-up at the other end. Dawn was well in progress as he spoke into the phone.

"Hello?"

"MacLeod! I am sure as hell glad to reach you!" It was Dawson. "Where in hell have you been? Your phone was offline!"

"I received several dead calls yesterday, so I shut it off for awhile. You are up early."

"I have been up for awhile. This really is not a social call, though. We have to talk. Now."

"What is the big hurry? I can meet you—"

"No, MacLeod, its gone way the HELL beyond that! I have done my damnedest at this end, but if you won't meet with me, some of my associates will meet with you. They are not the most pleasant sorts, either." The silence that followed carried truckloads of implication.

Duncan was instantly fully alert. "Dawson, considering all the years I have known you, that sounds like a threat. You know how well I respond to threats from Watchers. Do your associates want another war?"

"As far as they are concerned, MacLeod, one already has started. Watcher cells have been attacked all over the world and immortals we never even knew about are popping up all over the place. Then there is Paris and Italy."

"What happened here? It looked like a terrorist attack. I still don't see—"

"MacLeod, that destruction was caused by a QUICKENING, damn it! And the same goes for what happened in Italy. Eighty three people are dead here; possibly hundreds in Italy. And here, at least, we have nine unidentified immortals and a possible tenth, but we can't find her head. My associates seem to think that you have something to do with it all."

"That's fair of them. I didn't get up one day the last time and started killing Watchers for the hell of it. I was provoked. As much as I would enjoy the enlightened company of your Watchers, I have problems of my own here." As briefly as possible , he filled Dawson in on events.

"That is impossible, Duncan! Except for getting your head cut off, immortals do not get sick or stay wounded. "

"Tell Amanda that. I also may have something that would interest you. You tell your 'associates' not to come around here or they _will _get hurt. I will be there as soon as I can make some arrangements." Though it was rude, he cut off the conversation, and then turned off the cell. _A quickening caused the destruction I saw?_ That was inconceivable. He had killed powerful immortals before; there seemed no difference between that and killing a novice. If a quickening did happen, though, that meant a head had been taken. _Maybe the head was dragged home afterwards?_ He showered and shaved. As he was finishing, he smelled coffee brewing. Gwyneth had done the honors.

"You sleep well?"

"Yes, I did. For once, I had no dreams."

"Dreams? What sort did you have before?"

"Ones that still make no sense. But there was someone in them wearing that circlet. They were killing a lot of people that looked like me, at least in hair and eye color. I don't know anymore. Things have taken a strange turn."

"You will adapt to it. I have to go somewhere to talk to some people. Will you be ok alone for awhile?"

"Yes, I will. And I remembered what you said. Do not answer the door for anyone and do not leave here."

"That is right. Your life may depend on it, at until you learn to defend yourself."

"How is Amanda?" Gwyneth sounded concerned.

"I haven't checked, but that is a good idea to do so." Duncan and Gwyneth both peered into the room where she was. She lay on the bed clad only in Duncan's shirt; she had kicked off the covers at some point. She was white as a ghost and covered in a sheen of sweat; the shirt was soaked in it. The only sign of movement was some random muscle contractions across her frame. In tiny and larger pulses, blue lightning crackled from her right hand. Duncan warned her to be careful, but Gwyneth ran to Amanda's side. She wet a cloth by the bedside and mopped her brow. "Amanda, what happened to you? Please get well. I am sorry to have lied to you as I did, but I was not sure if you were like Lyonal." Gwyneth was weeping. Duncan laid a hand on her shoulder to comfort her. Then Amanda's eyes snapped open so abruptly that Gwyneth jerked back. "Amanda?" Gwyneth said, hopeful for a response. Amanda looked directly at Gwyneth, a smirk marring her countenance. She clearly intoned some words in that unrecognizable language. Then she seemed sad and close to tears. Then anger flashed across her features. Her voice was low and icy, but the words were clear. "You will not have anymore of me for your repast. I killed your sister; she is the cause of this. When I am through with her, I will deal with you as well, DEFILER!" Her features again went slack and her eyes closed. She seemed finally in restful sleep.

"Why is she saying those things! I do not have a sister!"

"I don't know. I hope I can get some answers where I am going today. I would take you with me, but someone needs to watch her."

"I understand. I will be all right." She still was by Amanda's bedside when he left. Before he did so, he retrieved a grisly package from his freezer.

This time, he did not head to the Bistro. He knew Dawson and company would be at another, much less public place. He pulled up next to the building and got out of his car. Things had changed a lot. There were three men at the door, very noticeably armed. When he attempted to enter, his path was blocked.

"What's in the parcel, MacLeod?" The guard made Duncan's name sound like an epithet.

"Nothing that would interest you. I am here to see Dawson." Once again, Duncan attempted to enter, but was blocked a second time. "If you want to dance, sorry to say this, but you aren't my type. Get the hell out of my way, now, or you just might get hurt. You really do not want to know what is inside this. "

"I think we do. We have no reason to trust you or any bastard like you." For added emphasis, the third guard released the safety on his Uzi.

"Very well, if you insist. I really hope you haven't eaten yet." It turned out two of them had done so. The one who hadn't quickly let Duncan inside; his face was drained of all color.

Inside the building, all was chaos. Duncan had never seen so many Watchers in one spot before. Also, never this many guards. Dawson was surrounded by three of them, all looking tough as nails.

"What is all of this, Dawson? It looks like a war room."

"That is about what it is, Duncan. Have you any idea what has been going on the last two days?" Dawson hurriedly introduced Duncan to several others clustered in a group.

"I only know what you told me and what I told you. I don't know anything about any pending war between us, though. You need to tell your friends that as well. "He placed his parcel on Dawson's desk. "You might want to get that into a freezer. It's the head of the alleged tenth immortal you found. At least I think it is."

"And how would you have come by such?" The woman asking the question did not have a pleasant expression on her face. Several of her colleagues cringed away from the parcel, but two people in lab coats carried it off without a twinge of revulsion.

"Dawson, Amanda showed up at my door two days ago drenched in blood. She had some items in a satchel and her sword in hand. This was stuck to her by its hair." Several people grew pale at the statement; others shot dirty looks at Duncan. Maybe it was his tone. Death did not really shock him much anymore.

"Amanda is involved in that quickening? That is not good, MacLeod."

"I don't KNOW if she is or not: I am telling you all I know. She has not been able to tell anyone anything yet. She is as ill as could possibly be. I can tell you what I need, though. Those items I have are staying with me; I need someone who can read Latin and tell me about a cross. Also someone who might be able to open a tome or two with deliberate poison on it and read whatever is inside. Lastly, I need the whereabouts of a certain bastard in a monk's habit. You know the one, Dawson. "

"We are working on it. Amanda's database has been of some use already. All things considered, if this son of a bitch is responsible for only half the things we have possibly discovered, he might not want to be someone you meet." Dawson excused himself to take a call. He returned in a moment shaking his head. "Another cell has been attacked. Three Watchers are dead and two are wounded." He looked at MacLeod. "Sorry to have to say this, MacLeod, but an immortal was despatched." Despatched in Watcher terminology meant that an immortal had been killed by a mortal. Duncan shrugged. He trusted Dawson at least. If an immortal had decided to kill Watchers, they got what they deserved. "That does not bother me. Do you have a record of the immortal?"

"No we don't. That figures, though. And guess what? We have no idea whose head you brought in, but there are some interesting things about it." Dawson motioned Duncan to follow him to a lab area. The head was submerged in liquid of some sort while technicians were probing it. Duncan started. _That looks exactly like Gwyneth! _He knew it wasn't but the resemblance was eerie. "This one's teeth were filed down. All the front incisors are pointed, just like a cannibal. The DNA also suggests a rather odd phenotype; no actual matches to current human strains. She also was immortal."

_Amanda's wound looked like something bit her. Or did someone bite her?_ "Amanda's wound looks like a bite of some sort. You don't suppose whoever this is bit her? How could that make her sick, though?"

Dawson shrugged. "I wish I knew. All that I know now is that several Watcher cells are going to ground until this is over. _If _it is ever over." One of Dawson's colleagues approached him and said something in a whisper to him. Dawson turned to Duncan. "Thank you for touching base with us and giving my colleagues assurances. I will keep in touch if anything changes." Without an afterthought, Dawson disappeared. Duncan shrugged and left the building.

"Is he gone?"

"Yes, sir. He just left."

Dawson sighed, and then cast a look around the area. "Okay. I will contact Wales and see what is going on. Make arrangements in case I have to travel."

"Already in progress, sir. We are going to have to insist on an escort wherever you travel until further notice. Also, what about that immortals requests regarding these items?"

"Find someone as soon as you can." His attention was taken up by the display on the Watcher net, though. The watcher logos were various shades around the globe; from green which meant all normal, to yellow, which meant trouble. Many of the logos had turned yellow in the past few days. Wales' logo had never even been anything but green until now; as a matter of fact, the reports from there for the last six years were rather banal. Too banal, a closer inspection had revealed. Now the logo was on the net, flashing a bright, angry red. Red meant way the hell beyond trouble. Watcher's held no concrete rank, but many deferred to Dawson by default for good reason. He reached for a telephone and dialed the profile number listed.

…_.she had become numb to the sea of blood trying to drown her. There is only so much horror a mind can register before a capacity is reached. Amanda had tried to extract herself for the sea a number of times, but had failed. The read-haired bitch was taunting her. When she wasn't, she was screaming obscenities at her. What was worst was when she tore off pieces of Amanda and consumed them before her eyes. .Look! The woman screeched. My sister has come to visit you! More for the feast! Sure enough, a near exact copy of the woman was at her side, rubbing something on her head. Amanda looked at this person. Gwyneth? Is that you? You can not be like the one here tormenting me! She looked again. The woman was stroking her head almost obscenely now. Her teeth were all canines. Amanda twisted away from her and screamed out a string of curses, but it did no good. She remembered rising out of the sea of blood and saying something else, but too quickly, she was pulled back down into its depths, falling: fading away it seems to a base thought process. Also, she burned with the fires of a multitude of infected bites on her body. Despite her seeming lifelong id-driven ways, there still was a spark of fortitude in her psyche. No matter how the fire and blood assailed her, it would not be extinguished….._

Duncan walked around for a while, digesting what he had learned and mixing it with what he knew. Despite his best effort, all that he had was an incomplete puzzle with some deadly implications. _We do not need another war! Too late, MacLeod, it has already started!_ Oh, he would love to get a hold of Methos and beat some answers out of him, but that option was not available to him. His phone chirped. With a sigh, he answered it. Well, even if he had been abrupt with him earlier, Dawson had made good on one promise. An expert of the sort he had requested would be by in the morning. That meant he had some time to kill. He thought about showing Gwyneth the basics of sword usage, but then he had an inspiration. _Why not find out some information about a Monastery that might harbor a homicidal maniac? _ Amanda was not going anywhere, and Gwyneth would watch her. He knew of a very good library in town with all sorts of information on places of that sort. He brightened somewhat now that he felt he had a constructive goal.

Edmund Laskey woke with the most horrible of hangovers, but it was the phone that had awoken him. Shrugging off the discomfort, he quickly answered it.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Laskey, this is Jim Dawson. I am calling from Paris."

"Regarding what? I don't know anyone from Paris. Especially any Americans." He was about to hang up the phone when Dawson repeated to him information only a Watcher would know. "What is going on up there? Why was your sigil flashing red?"

"I am not able to converse of that matter on the phone. You will have to come here." He quickly gave his address where he was. "Can you at least—" The line went dead. Edmund had expected that. He also knew that he would soon be a dead man. Despite the hangover he suffered, he moved like a man possessed. _You unlucky bastard! _ He shook his head at the thought, though. He had done all that he could to hopefully succeed in his endeavor, but now time was of the essence. It would be up to that Watcher to set things to right, and be blown to hell in the process too. He found that Watchers name in a secure database, along with his contact information. Paris would simply not do; he chose the New York address and scribbled it on his parcel. He did not bother with a return address. After rubbing some water into his hair, he quickly donned a coat and hat. He then placed a medium-sized bolt cutter under his jacket. He had planned this all out, but he needed to be quick. He made no effort to hide as he let himself out the front door of his dwelling and locked it. He ambled up to the corner as if out for a stroll. As soon as he reached the corner, though, he rapidly picked up his pace until he was almost at a run. He went down an alley and emerged in the opposite direction in which he had originally headed. There it was at the end of the street: A parcel pick-up box. He had slapped enough postage on his box to get to his destination, but the problem was if they did not see him with a package later, they would search and possibly find this one. Where else to trade packages but here? As soon as he could visibly see no one, he cut the padlock on the box with the bolt cutters. He quickly opened the box, pulled out a suitable substitute for his package, and then put his own inside. He pocketed the ruined lock then replaced it with an exact replica. Then he just as quickly headed away from the area. Once he was around the corner, he slowed to his ambling pace again. He listened to the birds chirping in the air, felt the wind on his face, felt the warm sun. He laughed aloud. For the first time in over six years, he really felt alive! He headed home to his virtual prison for the last six years. There was one more thing to do. He cleaned out his hiding place of any such items that would compromise what he had done. They were burned in his fireplace. He was not worried about his computer. That had already been taken care of. All he would have to do now is wait for the retribution. It really did not take long before he heard his front door burst in and heavy footsteps to make their way towards him.

Dougal was livid. _Whoever would have thought he would have the nerve to do something like this! _He had received the information only moments after his helpers had cut Laskey's phone line. It took nearly an hour to corral enough people to investigate. He giggled a little as he heard the sounds of that Laskey fool being slapped around, but he realized he would need another Watcher as well.

They beat him unmercifully, but he had fortified himself with more liquor before they arrived. One had torn open his parcel to only find foodstuffs. When they realized the package was not from or to him, though, they began to get vicious. He lay in a crumpled heap. His arm and possibly his hip were broken. His face was a smashed ruin as well as his right hand. He was in pain, but lady alcohol had lived up to her promise. "We asked you, where is you package!" This was accentuated with a brutal kick. Edmund gasped but remained silent. _All I have to do is buy time._ He had planned well. A postmaster had come by to empty the parcel box. When none of his keys fit, he contacted the local office. They had sent a locksmith rather than simply break the lock. Damaged property created much more paperwork. Within moments, the lock was open and the parcels were transferred. The postmaster shrugged at the delay; he was paid hourly, thus he was more than happy to sit on his ass and eat doughnuts while the work was performed.

One of them dragged Edmund over to his computer and made him boot it. They cast him aside and then started exploring its contents. They had retrieved a name Dawson from the phone conversation, but the computer had its own sort of protections. A shrill alarm sounded from the computer when the thugs tried to access the browser cache. The Virus was deadly and it was unstoppable. In moments, any data on the device was a digital ruin, forever gone from its storage device. _Well, I did what I could. It is now up to the others._ Edmund Laskey laughed as best he could through the ruin of his face. "Tell that red-haired bastard I win! Every one of you will die, and I will be laughing at you from above while you burn in hell!" He was laughing until the last. Four bullets into his ruined body finally set him free.

Dougal was livid. That bastard had pulled a fast one on him. There was no way to scour the area to find what he had mailed; the postmasters made their rounds early. Laskey had duped them but well. Dougal had no doubt what Laskey had sent somewhere. If that data was entered into the Watcher database, there would be hell to pay. Not only would head-seeking younglings come a-calling, but there would be some very pissed off Watchers as well. They would assuredly retaliate. He wondered when Dhurgal would be back, but he could only hope they did what they were instructed to do. He himself feared no youngling or mortal, but for the sake of the others, he had to find out what Laskey had mailed and where. One thing about mortals, though, they could be so easily manipulated with currency. Soon, he had some possible destinations for what Laskey had sent. It also was nice to know that this very same Dawson was coming for a visit. _One I think he will not live to regret._ He would wait for Dhurgal to return. Meanwhile, he would need some assistance for what he had planned…for both things…..

…_.do you think to hide from me there, youngling? The woman had bitten off another piece of Amanda, chewed as well she could, then swallowed. Amanda only watched her in silence. If she looked at the missing pieces of flesh on her frame, she would only start screaming again. There is so much you do not know about even what you know you are. The woman wiped a runnel of blood from her chin. See what you now can do? She raised her right hand. Blue tinged lightning crackled from it. Like the monk? He is no monk, fool! He destroyed us and he had no right to do so! He is full of power as I am; probably even more. Even immortals can hold only so much; past a certain point, a quickening does not even affect us. We can even hide our immortality if we choose. Why did the monk have no right to judge you, you filthy bitch. I can see why he would have wanted you dead. Amanda screamed as a burst of lightning from the woman crackled into her body. You may have killed me, but I am alive and well in your mind. I really think we should go meet my sister, now. I will not only consume you, I will become you. She laughed. No fool youngling can stand against us….shall we go now? Bolt after bolt of quickening fire jolted Amanda….screaming did no good…no good at all…._

Gwyneth was combing through her notes trying to find out what the strange runes meant. But she knew she would have no luck. She heard a noise behind her. She jumped when she saw Amanda there, peering at the runes as well. "Amanda, you are awake? Are you feeling all right?" Amanda did not answer. She looked somewhat flushed versus the pale color she had before. The bandage she wore over her wound had fallen away, revealing the chunk of her that was missing. It had not even scabbed over; it suppurated and reeked of something vile. Amanda herself was filthy. Her eyes had a feverish light and she was smirking. She walked up to Gwyneth and started stroking her hair, mumbling something in that strange language. It sounded soothing, almost gentle. Gwyneth tentatively smiled at Amanda's attention, but she was also nervous. Amanda abruptly quit stroking Gwyneth's hair. Her smirk fell off her face like water. She looked as if she was struggling with something inside her. She jerked convulsively once, than again. She then steadied herself on a chair. Her look was now baleful.

"I know why you can't read those runes. I know; I definitely do. No human from the modern day could read them. It is your name. Your real name, BITCH! She says I should greet you as a sister!" Amanda jerked again, but steadied herself again. She picked up her sword. "I think I will simply kill you; then she may leave me alone." As fast as Amanda could strike, her weakened and fevered state slowed her down.

Gwyneth still only narrowly avoided the blow which destroyed the chair where she had been sitting. Gwyneth ran as fast as she could, but Amanda painfully jerked her to a halt with her hair. Gwyneth tripped Amanda as she came close, and soon they fought on the floor.

"Why are you doing this Amanda?" She got no answer, but Amanda's expression was venomous. Amanda convulsed again and staggered up from the floor, no longer concentrating on Gwyneth.

She turned her back on Gwyneth as well. "She is not my sister! You are dead!" Amanda held her head and screamed. "It is all right, sister. I will not let this puerile youngling harm you."

"Don't count on it, BITCH!" The paperweight Amanda hurled fractured Gwyneth's skull. Amanda sniggered, than slowly dragged the body to her room. She would have her sister with her now. She didn't pay attention to the trail of blood on the floor or the blood soaking Gwyneth. Amanda only paused in her efforts to get her sword.


	21. Chapter 20

_The Monastery was founded sometime in the early 7__th__ century A.D. In 1045, its name was changed to The Monastery of Saint Timothy in honor of an alleged defender who protected those there from a raider incursion. _ Duncan stared at a picture of a tapestry that allegedly hung on the Monastery wall. _That could be an immortal and that could also be a quickening._ Despite his further reading though, the Monastery had simply seemed to fade into the history books. One possible reason was that it was a Catholic based institution; England was mostly Protestant. It did not have the fame of other edifices of Catholicism, either. He looked at the time; he did not realize so much had passed. He had best get home and check on Amanda. There was the matter of Gwyneth as well. Somehow, he would have to find the means to train her.

"Gwyneth. I am back!" Duncan looked in shock. His place was in shambles. Gwyneth's laptop was askew on the table. A chair had been destroyed. A lamp and an end table also were a ruin. He had felt the tingling, but the moment he saw the trail of blood and brains on the floor, his Katana was in his hands, ready for ruin. "Amanda? Gwyneth? Who is there?" Only his paranoia saved him from the paperweight that whistled by his head and smashed into the wall. He whirled to see Amanda facing him. She wore a grimace on her visage, and in her hand was her sword. "Put that down, Amanda. Don't you recognize me? It's Duncan. Where in HELL is Gwyneth?" Without saying a word, Amanda attacked. Sword rang upon sword in the dwelling. Duncan now heard a moaning sound, then a scream. He did not dare investigate though due to Amanda. He knew she could use a sword, but he had not sparred with her for a long time. The way she wielded her weapon was unnatural, but deadly. She moved inside his guard several times and drew blood, but he had yet to come close to striking her. Then she faltered and convulsed and staggered. Duncan dropped his sword and ran to her, but was jolted by a bolt of _lightning! _ He staggered away, holding his side where he was struck, but still kept his sword in hand. _That had hurt! That was quickening fire! Had there been another immortal here? That could not be; a quickening only happened when you took a head! _ What he saw, though, defied what he knew. Amanda faced him with a deadly expression on her countenance. Quickening fire crackled down and up her arm and across her body. "Even I have more POWER than any youngling ever possessed! And I will soon possess this one! This is the price you pay for interference, fool!" Amanda convulsed yet again, as if she fought something. Gwyneth was alternating between sobbing gasps and screaming as she crawled on hands and knees out of Amanda's room. She was a bloody mess from head to toe, her head especially. Amanda's gaze centered on Gwyneth now. "Havoc, dowdy an Ap Hwywd!" She stalked over to Gwyneth and raised her sword. Gwyneth screamed again, but this time in fury. She smashed into Amanda, ducking under the sword cut and bore her to the floor. Amanda's sword clattered away. Duncan had to physically pull Gwyneth from Amanda. She was pounding her head into the floor. Amanda was out cold, but lightning still crackled across her frame. Duncan turned to Gwyneth to say something, but she was near catatonic shock. "Sh-sh-sh-she killed me! She attacked me for no reason. WHY IS SHE DOING THIS! Is this what I have to look forward to?" She spat on Amanda.

"No. She is not herself. She attacked me too." Duncan looked as if he was near tears. "We need to do something, and I need your help to do it."

"Kill her! She will only go berserk again! Kill that –"Duncan slapped her hard enough to knock Gwyneth down. "I don't want to hear any more of that from you! Do you understand me! She and I have been friends for over 200 years. If you had not lied to her before, she may have avoided all of this! So WE are going to deal with it because YOU are partly to blame for this! In the basement there is a spool of rope. Get it now!" He tenderly picked up Amanda, ignoring the periodic jolts of lightning he got from her. Her room was a mess as well. He gently set her down on the floor. He removed the sheets that were soiled with sweat and now blood and cast them aside. Even though immortals could not die from such things, they still were affected like mortals regarding drugs. He injected Amanda with a heavy dose of an industrial strength sedative. Then he cleaned up the room and laid fresh bedding down. A bloodied Gwyneth returned with the rope. She only watched in silence as he laid Amanda on the bed then proceeded to tie her securely to it. She noticed he was crying as he did so. He bound her legs , then her arms. Then he wrapped several turns around her chest. He had put another bandage on her wound. _It still did not heal!_ It had turned almost black and wept an unhealthy looking fluid. The bands of infection radiated from the wound to most all areas. He turned to Gwyneth. "Get cleaned up. You sleep in my bed again. I am staying here. I am sorry I struck you, but Amanda is one of the few immortal friends I have. You will eventually learn that friends are more valuable when you are immortal."

He heard the shower running as he watched Amanda. He was crying as he spoke to her. Despite the sedative, her body still twitched and convulsed, though restrained by the ropes that bound her. "What happened to you, Amanda? What in hell happened? Here I thought that you were up to your old tricks, but it turns out you were only trying to help a friend. All the times I was telling you should grow up and act your age, "he sniffed," and now you try to do so and you are near death for the effort. What ever it is, you have to fight it somehow. I don't want to take your head. You still are going to get a lecture you know." He smiled at her through his tears. "I wish there was something I could do to help, but I can't think of anything right now." He kissed her on her sweaty brow and wept for his friend. He sat in a chair by her bed and covered himself with a blanket. It was going to be a long night.

**Paris 1805**

_Duncan was reading the paper that morning when bedlam interrupted his task. He observed hordes of soldiers swarming through the esplanade. What is going on, he asked a passing soldier. Nothing to worry about, monsieur; it's just that a theft has been discovered of some valuables from an esteemed personage. Duncan shrugged and went back to his reading, but he could not fail to notice the telltale tingle of someone nearby. The only possible targets were a doddering old man…and two young looking females hidden in the shadows. The fact they were dressed in trousers confirmed to him they were of his kind. He went over there. The two initially looked up in fright, but relaxed when Duncan introduced himself. He had noticed also that the brown haired one was hiding something from view. Good afternoon, ladies. Isn't it a fine day? I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan Macleod. You haven't possibly seen a thief or two running around on the Esplanade, have you? They are looking for one now. Oh, are they? What would make you think we would know of such people, the blond haired female sniffed. Maybe its your partner's look of guilt? Duncan laughed. I am not going to report you, but its not a good idea to be pick pocketing people here. There might be good pickings, but also a lot of police, too. Good day, ladies. Duncan took his leave with a tip of his hat._

_After he had left, both ladies breathed a sigh of relief. How do you think he spotted us? Amanda asked. She showed her mentor the coins and jewelry she had purloined. I don't know, but we do need to be careful. He is a rakish sort, isn't he? Yes he is, Amanda said, and not bad looking either…_

_Amanda! Duncan's voice had lecture written all over it. But Duncan, it will be fun! Hasn't there ever been a time when you kicked up your heels and enjoyed life? Yes, but not deliberately at other peoples expense, and I might even think before I act. Doesn't that sound like good advice? That sounds like a boring existence to me!..._

Duncan was nudged from his reverie by laughing. It was Amanda doing so. She looked at her bonds and tested them. They held her tight. "Release me from here now!" Her look was not only baleful, but also seemed imperious.

"I don't think so, Amanda. That is at least two times you attacked Gwyneth, and once for me. You know how it is." She made lightning crackle across her right hand, but it was not very active. "And that's a neat trick with the lightning as well. That will not work, either. "

Amanda mumbled some words to herself in that same strange language. "It doesn't matter, anyways. My brothers will kill you for interfering, as I intend to kill this one for the SAME THING!"

"What brothers? Any relation to Gwyneth being your sister?"

"The whole clan is related to each other. That is our strength. This bitch should never have interfered; now she is paying the price! You think that these bindings will stop me? Or stop any of us?"

"Interfere in what? And what clan?"

"Our clan, youngling. The Clan of Ap Hwywd. The Clan who will rule unfettered after all has been accomplished!" This was followed with what sounded like a cackle.

Duncan smiled, "There have not been any clans of consequence for centuries. They are only figurehead representations."

Amanda stopped laughing and glared at Duncan. "I was not talking centuries, fool! I meant millennia! We were old before what you even call ancient history! You study it, but we lived it!"

Duncan may have looked like he was humoring her, but he was listening to every word she said. "It sounds like you are as old as some people I know, then. That still doesn't explain the monk though." Despite the unpleasant conditions surrounding this dialogue, he was filling in some blanks.

Amanda seemed to be conversing with another in her mind. "Death is a very good liar, youngling. Even he is not as old as us. And you are a fool if you think that…DESTROYER! Is a monk! If we do not kill you, he may do the same!" She convulsed, only restrained by the ropes that bound her. "Sardicus should have been king, not he!" She collapsed to the bed, all tautness going slack. The only sound in the room was her harsh breathing.

"The King? Is that what she said, Duncan. "Gwyneth stood in the doorway, her face slightly sleepworn.

"Yes. But it still doesn't make any sense. Go back to sleep. We will have our hands full tomorrow as well. " One piece of information he turned over in his mind, though. _Death is a very good liar, youngling._ Methos used to go by that name long ago, but what had he lied about? As he mulled this over in his mind, sleep once again claimed him.

The sun was warm on the back of his neck as he slowly came awake by degrees. He arose and stretched, cracking the kinks out of his frame. He mulled over his options. Any real going about would be impeded by Amanda's condition. Gwyneth could not be trusted with her care; after all hadn't Amanda attacked her twice, once with vicious intent. She lay in her bindings like a corpse; her flesh nearly as white as alabaster. On occasion , her head would twitch or her body would jerk, and she would mumble something in that strange language. He sadly shook his head and went outside into the living room. Gwyneth still was asleep, he guessed. After he took a shower, he dug out some cold cuts and made a sandwich. After that and some strong coffee, he almost felt human again. It was only a little after eight when he heard a knock on the door. "Who is it?" Duncan eyed his sword nearby. "Mr. Dawson sent me to look at some items you had?" Some people did consider early as _early!_ He opened the door to see a rather wizened, scholarly looking man standing there. Duncan let him in. He offered him some coffee, but the old man declined.

"My name is Mr. Saule. I was told you had some items that would need to be inspected and possibly appraised?" He had a most grandfatherly smile on his countenance.

"You were not given any information on them? I left some with Dawson."

"They only told me that you had some items. I prefer not to know of them beforehand; it could spoil my objectivity. "

Duncan smiled. If anything, Dawson did know some capable people. He bade the man sit at the desk then produced the items one at a time. Mr. Saule turned the crown over and inspected it. "This is perhaps 45 ounces of sterling silver with an indecipherable rune on it. There would not be much value in this unless you were fond of this sort of thing. He looked over the tomes carefully; he only handled them after putting on thick gloves. "These are interesting as well. The writing on these appears to be several languages. Someone coated the page edges with some sort of poison, probably lethal." The man closed the tomes after quickly leafing through their contents. "You will need someone far better versed in various dead languages to make any sense of these. The runes in them look Celtic or the equivalent." _So, I was right about those, _Duncan thought. The old man became more animated upon seeing the parchment, though. "This is in Latin way before the time of the printing press. This was hand written. "

"What is it?"

"An Order of Excommunication against a Monastery dated 1201 according to the writing. And it was signed by the pope himself! This must have been a task of utmost importance as well. He included his papal cross as authority to go with the document."

"I take it that is this?" Duncan produced the cross.

The old man was speechless at first, but then he deftly inspected the item. "There is some documentation that states this was lost and never recovered. It seems to be genuine." He suddenly had a serious expression on his face. "I do not wish to know how this was obtained, but it is at once priceless, worthless, and possibly dangerous."

"How would it be dangerous? The gems on the item, let alone the gold, would be very valuable as well."

"No one in their right mind would dare try to sell this; it would be like trying to fence the Mona Lisa. The back is hallmarked. This item poses an additional threat to who possesses it. The danger here would be that even though we live in the modern age, there still exist protectors of the Catholic faith. They are called Defensor Fidei; not to be confused with the title conferred upon the English royals. They would go to great lengths to get this item back, especially if they knew about it." He reread the excommunication order. "It looks like this cross was included with the writ so as there would be no issue with authority."

"It seems that way, yes."

"Then it may be possible that those who carried out the order never accomplished their task. As far as I am concerned, these items do not exist. I wish you the best in your endeavors. "The old man made haste in preparing to leave.

"One more thing. Does this say what Monastery was to be excommunicated?"

"The Monastery of Saint Timothy. Good day, Monsieur." He left without a further word.

_The same place with that hanging. Why does that figure? _His train of thought was broken by Gwyneth appearing and pouring herself a cup of coffee. Sounds also came from Amanda's room. Gwyneth turned in that direction, but her expression was grim.

"I hope she is tied down securely, Duncan. Who was that who was just here?"

"Someone who looked over the items in that satchel. And Amanda is my problem. I will deal with it." _I hope I do not have to…NO!_ He would not even consider that thought; more than one immortal friend had died by his hand. For all those times, he had an excuse, but there would be none here. She simply had to get better! He tried Dawson on his cell phone, but it was turned off at Dawson's end. He thought that was odd, but he shrugged it off. He had some more reading to do, but he had the books he needed here.

Mr. Saule had not gone very far from the abode before he was on a cell phone as well. Unlike Duncan's attempt though, the number he dialed was answered before the first full ring. The voice on the other end seemed bored at first, but as Mr. Saule spoke, the voice on the other end became more and more animated. The conversation ended quickly, but not before the call's recipient received some valuable information regarding some lost property.

There was a good reason that Dawson's phone was turned off. It had been turned off ever since he made up his mind to travel to Wales over the objections of his colleagues. It is a trap, some of them said. Others pointed to what information they had gathered. Even though Wales was somewhere off the beaten path, the Watcher cell that had gone red had now come under renewed scrutiny. Out of the 17 Watchers allegedly active there, only Edmund Laskey appeared to be answering his phone. Upon closer inspection, the reports out of that cell were routine. Too routine. This abnormality started around six years ago. Despite the human urge to finger point, there was no time for that considering the circumstances. Numerous Watcher cells had gone to ground in the last week. What that meant was that the cells archived their files and disappeared as best as they could. If the cells ever reformed, they would then unarchive their information then update it. Once Dawson made up his mind to go to Wales, it set the Watcher organization in motion. His cell phone was confiscated and shut off, due to it not having sufficient security. Despite his protestations, a group of six escorts was going with him. The group was led by one Paddy Humboldt. A giant sized human being, he was retired from a special services police force stationed in Ireland. He had received an honorable commendation from the force; publicly, he was as upright a policeman as any force would want. The real truth was that privately, he possessed a brutal pragmatism which his superiors felt did not fit in with the new image they wished to adopt. It is a simple matter to find people brutish enough to not have qualms about injuring their fellow man, but much harder to find one with those qualities plus the ability to think. The suspect they had caught would not admit to his crimes. With only circumstantial evidence, this child molester would have gone free. Not after Paddy had a chat with them. They found two of his victims dead and buried exactly where the suspect said they were. The suspect died of his injuries shortly thereafter. He was recruited into a Watcher cell after he researched a tattoo found on a corpse. It was either recruit him or kill him; the vast majority who had voted decided the former option was the best. He had selected five others to accompany him and Dawson to Wales. He was the one who confiscated Dawson's cell phone. He and his associates had secure units. Paddy then quickly appraised the situation. He decided that it was a trap period, but orders were orders. The seven of them left that morning on a train to their destination; they were armed to the teeth as per Paddy's instruction.

Only two hours after they left, a bomb detonated near the Watcher cell HQ in Paris. A vicious firefight ensued, leaving many dead and wounded. A Watcher was found out to have betrayed his own to the attackers. After a very brief discussion, what information they had was archived and the remaining Watchers left alive had disappeared into the population. A pre recorded message made it seem that the line was no longer in service, but a Watcher hearing the message would know that another Cell had gone to ground….

Brother Timothy awoke and stretched. He took a shower then ate some leftover food he had in the small fridge in his apartment. He started to say a prayer to God then hesitated. _ Me? Does he even exist, or have I been living a lie? _ Already, seventeen people had been killed by his hand; more would die before this was through. _Possibly even yourself._ Did he have any right to beg for God's forgiveness? He thought about all the times when he had answered to another set of gods; ones who would have sneered at the pacifism of Christianity. _Pacifism?_ He prayed silently in his room. _And it seems that the ones who would seem the most pious deserve not God's mercy at all…._

**England 1202 A.D.**

…_he had already heard the rumors, and they had been backed up with written fact: The Pope had declared an Inquisition and no one was safe from it. The worst had occurred in France, but its deadly tendrils had crept northwards and crossed the small water. It was amazing how many would admit to heresy once the proper tortures were applied. It did not even matter what sort of sentence was imposed; death always seemed to be the outcome. The ones who ran this circus would be satisfied with nothing less, since only a death of a heretic could prove their glorious work for God. They came to the Monastery one day; he remembered because the day was sunny with few clouds, and they had ruined it. The speaker was a gaudily dressed fool. We call upon the Brothers of this Monastery to lend their will in finding the heretics amongst you and show them the proper path to the Lord God! The Monsignor at the time was a weak willed fool, so he addressed the speaker directly. Why would we need you and yours to root out heresy and apostasy? Haven't you slaughtered enough? The speaker was in shock as he went to converse with the entourage. Then he returned. Your attitude is not seeming with one who is penitent to God! You are a human as am I; what gives you the right to make that statement? All that this Inquisition is being used for is to steal and pilfer for some human pursuit. I see no glory of God in that. You and yours will leave here and not return; you are not welcome or wanted here. When the speaker motioned two guards to accost him, he easily disarmed them and knocked them down. He grabbed the speaker by the front of their clothing. If you seek heresy and apostasy, maybe you should investigate the one who sanctioned your murderous purge! He cast the speaker to the ground. Get out of my sight! They never returned to the Monastery…._

_..it was several months later that the troubles began. Two Brothers were burned at the stake as heretics, and several had to flee angry crowds. Soon, the seriousness of the attacks was revealed. The speaker had gone up through the chain of ecclesiastical command …all the way to Rome! The pope had taken umbrage at his comments and issued an order of Excommunication against the Monastery. They did not consider this to be a major task, so they were sending only fifty people to carry out the edict. After the Monastery was no more, the inquisitors would move in and probably purge the population. As it went for the moment, it was now open season on any Brother of this Monastery. Because of the popularity of their Monastery regarding the village, there was no formal, spoken announcement. That was a factor in his favor. If the edict was never carried out, it could be quashed. There was no way the Brothers here could resist an armed force of that size, so it fell to him…..once again…_

…_You know, you are going about this rather inefficiently, the stranger said. He snarled back, how else am I to do what must be done? He had shadowed the fifty they had sent; he had killed only three so far, and two messengers. Those crossbow quarrels hurt, though! This made the second time he had died. He writhed in agony as he yanked out the second quarrel that had hit him. Then he looked at the hooded stranger. What do you care, anyways? I have to get back to what I was doing. I never have seen you this petulant, Ardis, not ever. The stranger's laugh was like a bell. They removed their hood. Clywd! Where have you been all this time! Oh, I have been around here and there. If you like, my companion and I would be glad to assist partially in this endeavor, but we really do not wish to deal with the iron wielders with swords. That will be no problem. And you may want to consider one of those bows to keep at your side…you never know when it could be of use….._

…_.the crossbowmen were all dead. Clywd and his companion had seen to that, and in very short order. He harried them constantly, killing one or two at a time then disappearing. Of the fifty that had left, only ten remained…he laughed as he pursued them…._

…_..now only one remained, and they were not in the best of mental conditions. They howled obscenities at him, but he paid those no mind. They knew that this monk was not of their kind; his wounds healed almost instantly. They had tried trampling him with a horse, but he easily unhorsed the rider. The final battle was not even a battle. He had searched the corpse first, but found what he was looking for in the leader's saddlebags. Not only did he now have the edict, but he also had the sign of papal authority…he hid them safely away. The inquisitors came later, but they decided to leave when a number of them also died. No such purge ever got near the Monastery again…._

**England 1232 A.D.**

…_.The weaponsmith looked at him askance. What use will a crossbow that size do ye even if I can make it? It will not have the power of this full size one here. How would I carry that unobtrusively, though? It would not be meet for a man of the cloth such as I to openly carry such a godless weapon. I am told you are the best craftsman around….but if you can not make what I wish…He had taken his friends advice in a way…he had a crossbow now…but it looked like a child's toy. It was only 10 inches high or so at its largest point, but it was not a toy. Its range was limited to perhaps sixty feet, but he found that more than adequate. Finding quarrels for it proved to be a harder task, but that was done as well. He tipped them in deadly poison to compensate for their shorter range. All things considered, maybe I should have done this a while ago, he thought. It had served him well throughout the years…_

He finished his prayer and once again arose. He wondered how that youngling was faring at the moment; wherever she was, any near her would have her hands full. He decided to go out for a walk and think over his options. It was rather annoying that there were barricades up and police about detouring traffic away from a scene of carnage. No bother, he thought, it does not concern me. Something else was of more concern now. He felt multiple tingling sensations. He ignored them for the moment, but not totally. Though he had hopes for a friend, it was most likely foe that was around. He kept his persona as damped down as he could.

…_.she rested in the midd__le of a midden heap. The wounds on her body were infected and there was no way to move without causing pain. This was where she had lived before the plague took her. She was appalled at the filth surrounding her; she only considered the surroundings a midden heap. This was how I lived before I died and became immortal. Wait….I was never wounded like that. Those sorts of wounds in that filth would have killed me. But she is killing me….who is? The red-haired bitch of the perverted habits. The vision of her home was washed away in a sea of blood. It drenched her and tumbled her around in it. The bitter iron-tinged odor was enough to make her gag. She was covered with bite marks; pieces of her flesh were missing! The red-haired woman bent down again, her filed incisors dripping with blood. I said I would consume you bite by bite, and I shall! You can not escape from me! Try as she might, Amanda could not escape those sharp teeth or the gore or the reek of death that was everywhere. She now knew the strange language the woman spoke; it was beyond the realm of humans, since it was not their language originally. The languages of the day like it were but pale runic imitations of it. Olden-Tongue was as good a name for it as any. She had so far resisted her to an extent, but not totally. My god, she had attacked and killed Gwyneth and attacked Duncan! Would they ever forgive her? It was not her fault…..She screamed…IT WAS NOT MY FAULT!...The woman tore off another chunk of her flesh and chewed it…..and swallowed. It is your fault bitch! All your fault! You bit me, and tore off my flesh….and I cut off your head to stop you…I killed you! I ….killed..you..The woman was no longer laughing; she was furious! She clawed and scratched at Amanda…you are mine….but I killed you…..YOU….ARE…MINE! You are DEAD! I killed you…..The blood washed over her in torrents…but I am only seeing her memories….of who she was…where she had been….she had a lot of power…this Amanda knew….but when an immortal takes another's head, they gain the power….nothing regarding their memories, though…..but...she knew this now...powerful memories….of a race and language long dead….of her perversion….she knew why she had attacked Gwyneth now as well….she may not be like this one, but she is from the same clan…the sea of blood was only in her mind…..she accepted its symbolism. It ceased to wash over her. She looked at her ruined flesh. This did not happen to immortals! She ignored the red-haired woman's verbal abuse. One by one, she concentrated on the wounds. And one by one, they disappeared. There was one that did not, but she ignored its pain. She saw a monk slaughtering nine immortals…but to these immortals, younglings like her had power of no consequence. How many heads did you take?...it no longer mattered at the moment…these memories were hers now…she would have to deal with them as she may…her clothing was a gore soaked filthy ruin…now they were whole and clean and warm. There was one more thing she needed, though…she felt its weight in her hand…..she smiled…a smile of malevolence and fury…..the red-haired bitch was dead..now to purge her from her mind…it was her mind after all….._

Amanda shuddered and writhed against her bonds. Blue lightning crackled form her in fits and starts as she struggled. Duncan sat in a chair near her silent as a stone. He was enraged at his powerlessness in this situation. He had no idea who or what had hurt Amanda, but someone was going to pay dearly for this misdeed. His grim countenance reflected this vow.


	22. Chapter 21

The train arrived in Wales on time. Once they were there, Paddy lost no time. He commandeered two cars. He had four of his companions in one, he Dawson and the fifth in another. They proceeded immediately to the area where the house was, but did not immediately enter. The five he had brought along scouted the entire area before they gave the all clear sign. There was no question that this cell had been compromised; they quickly found the phone tap as well as some shoddily placed but advanced acoustics equipment. When they saw the smashed front door, two of them pulled out weapons, ready for any trick. They remained outside to watch while the others entered. The smell of the interior was enough to make several of them gag, but Dawson had smelled the same too many times before. Laskey was very dead; his computer had been wiped of all data. The interior was also decrepit looking if no one had bothered with any housekeeping…_for six years?_ Hard copy information on the cell and what they did was scattered piecemeal throughout the dwelling. One associate discovered the hiding place Lackey had used for so long. It was largely empty except for a picture under cracked glass. Then simultaneously they heard shouts and gunfire from outside as one of the associates stepped on part of the floor that made an ominous click. Dawson jolted at the sound, thinking it was a mine, but it was something worse. Paddy tore off a section of wall to find a timed explosive device; attached to it was a large amount of plastic explosive. The only thing that saved the group was that the triggering device had sustained some damage; the timing device also had suffered. There was a note attached to the device. It said "I hate you all! Now you all will die!" It was Laskey's last joke. A short occurred in the wiring and the timer kicked in. They had three minutes to get the hell out of the house.

Paddy's associates were already outside exchanging fire with whomever it was that had attacked. Dawson wheeled him self around and headed towards the door as fast as he could go, but Paddy was as pragmatic as they came. He picked up Dawson like he weighed nothing and barreled out of the death trap. The explosion was spectacular, lifting the house off of its foundation and dropping the remains in a rather lethal fireball complete with instant shrapnel. One of Paddy's associates was ripped to shreds. They managed to get far enough way to avoid any serious damage, but Paddy had fallen on Dawson from the concussion of the blast, knocking the wind out of Dawson. The blast only added to the destruction in the area. Two others of Paddy's associates were dead; one of the remaining two was wounded, but still firing from his position. Several attackers also lay on the ground, but at least two were reanimating. "You all right, Dawson?" Dawson nodded as Paddy scanned the surrounding area. One of their cars was a mass of flaming wreckage, but the other seemed in ok shape. "Come on, boys! We need to get the hell out of here now! Some of those bastards are immortal!" The one remaining unhurt associate dragged the wounded one in the direction of the car while the wounded one sprayed the attackers with his firearm. Paddy went to scoop up Dawson when something sang past his ear. He felt several impacts on his back, but his shell armor plus his size caused them to have little effect. Four attackers were headed towards them, reloading what looked like Uzi's. Paddy drew out a massive handgun, and with icy calm shot the four approaching. A fifth round struck someone in the back seat of one of their cars who had been aiming a crossbow at them; the last two rendered the car completely inoperable. He reloaded the pistol, but as he did, the remaining car screeched up beside him and the door was thrown open. He nearly tossed Dawson into the back seat and was about to enter himself when something hit him hard in the back. Paddy grunted and whirled around. One of the reanimated ones had hit him with a two by four. Paddy nonchalantly smashed the transgressor in the face with his full body weight behind the blow. They flew six feet before they hit the ground. He piled into the car as it left the scene of carnage in a squeal of rubber. Police sirens began to converge on the destruction, but besides the Watcher fallen, only two other dead there were mortal. Another car had arrived before the police and they had tossed several bodies into the trunk. After sifting through the mass incongruities from witnesses, the press reported a separatist terrorist act; the witness statements were squelched.

Later on in the day, Paddy's cell phone began ringing constantly. When it was not, he was calling out. The wounded associate had been patched up as best as they could; he and the others left were holed up in a safe house of sorts. Finally, the cell phone tag had ended; Paddy let out a string of curses then sighed. "Well, you want the bad news, the worse news, or the possibly not so bad news?" Dawson shrugged, "Well since I am going to hear it all anyways.."

"The Paris cell was attacked shortly after we left. It seems that at least two Watchers betrayed them. They are going to ground. Three of your senior associates are dead, Jim; the ones alive are howling for blood."

"Whose blood?"

"The cell was attacked by Immortals after being betrayed by two watchers. I seriously hope your friend isn't too perturbed since at least three we dispatched. "

"How in hell would I know? You have kept me incommunicado since we left on this jaunt. Whether they have gone to ground or not, I still need to get back to Paris to inform—"

"You will be doing no such thing. I have been advised that I am now responsible for keeping you alive; you seem to have more tolerance for those bastards than most of us. It is most likely that Laskey led us into a trap. Had that bomb worked as it was supposed to, none of us would be here now. We also were able to extract some information from the traitorous bastards we caught. Whoever killed Laskey was upset because they broke the limits of the rules placed on them. He apparently mailed something somewhere. Paris may have been attacked because that might have been its destination. We think what ever it was went somewhere else."

"What do you think he mailed?"

"He would not have had much time to do anything after he activated that warning beacon. Considering he had been kept from communicating for six years, he would have had to act fast after being contacted. And guess who contacted him?" Paddy had a slight smile on his countenance.

"Son of a bitch! You think he may have mailed—"

"It is possible. New York is still active, though at yellow status. That is where we are going as soon as it can be arranged. Needless to say, this situation may cause you more inconvenience."

"Paddy, I appreciate all you have done, but you do not know MacLeod. If he can not contact me, he will find me, and he is not someone you want to make unhappy."

Paddy shook his head. "You are suddenly the most valuable commodity our organization has. If this Laskey fellow sent you something, then we need to find out what in hell he sent. For all we know, it could be another bomb! I have been given a job to do, and I intend to do it! We are going to New York and _no one _is going to know in advance when we go. I can't see how one immortal bastard matters to you that much, but he of all people will not be contacted. If necessary, we will cross that bridge when we come to it. Is that understood?" His expression stated that Dawson had no choice in the matter. Dawson shrugged his shoulders. "Okay. But don't say I didn't warn you about MacLeod…he can be very persistent." Paddy chuckled, "But so can we be the same. " He explained what they would be doing. What he did not say was that he had already contacted the New York cell and advised them of possible danger headed their way. Even now, New York not only had all inbound mail watched, but had gathered up some canine ordnance detection and increased the number of guards. An ominous sign was that interspersed with the gunmen were people wielding axes…..

Duncan threw down his phone in disgust. Dawson's cell was still off line, preventing him from getting any further information. There had been another bomb and people said there had been a firefight. _The address was where the Watcher cell was! _ He did not dare leave Amanda alone with Gwyneth, so that precluded going over there and finding out directly. Amanda had not improved any, but she did not seem to be getting any worse. _How in hell is she generating quickening fire, though?_ He had never heard of such a thing. She thrashed and moaned at times, speaking in that strange tongue again. Earlier today, Gwyneth had peeked in on her to see how she was doing and got a _bolt _of quickening fire and a stream of curses in that language. The attack had burned a hole through her shirt and scorched her as well. Even though the wound healed and the shirt was replaced, Gwyneth's look was now sepulchral. She did not go anywhere near the room again, but she shot baleful looks at the doorway on occasion. Duncan smiled for a second. _Amanda sure has some creative ways of making friends._ He had considered showing Gwyneth some basics of swordplay, but not now, not how things stood. She might use it on Amanda. All that he could do now was wait and see how things turned out.

…_it had taken all of her concentration and will to sort through the miasma of memories that comprised the red haired bitch named Bronwyn. At times it seemed undoable and she cried from the effort, but she grimly pushed on. It seemed that endless seas of blood and horrifying acts were acknowledged, then tossed away to be accepted into her paradigm. That one that Bronwyn called her sister had showed up again, but Amanda had blasted her with lightning. That heartened her immensely. Other memories she filed away in an attempt to remember them. That language was most important. But what these bastards had done because they decided they simply could was equally as important. No wonder that that one had issued an edict against them. If anything, she envied his insistence on the law even if he of all people could have easily sundered it. She had to warn Duncan somehow of what he harbored in his dwelling besides her. When the memories tried to flood in too fast she found that she could sort of step out of its way, then dive back in when she was ready. She had had fleeting glimpses of the Daoine up until now, but nothing like before. The flow of memory became slower and slower until it finally stopped. Her left side above her breast twanged with pain, but she refused to acknowledge it. That in itself was an incongruity; immortals never received wounds that did not heal, unless you counted a decapitation. She chuckled at that, and then her face grew grim. She once again was on that vale approaching the woman. It was still littered with bits and pieces of dead, dismembered child. It would be different, now; it was different. In her mind, the pieces of children dissipated away into her paradigm, leaving only the vale and the woman on the rock. She still felt trepidation, but her sword in her hand gave her reassurance. She silently walked up and tapped the woman on the shoulder. Hello, remember me? The woman was startled as she whirled. Her face was still covered in blood from her repast. What are you doing here? I do not want you here; this is my place! I see that you still have not learned your place yet, youngling. She vomited a gusher of blood at Amanda, but Amanda stepped aside. The gusher dissipated into nothingness. Then Bronwyn launched herself at Amanda, mouth open wide to reveal her sharpened incisors. She was brought up short and knocked down on the ground with a brutal savate kick. Your place? This is my place, BITCH! You are dead! Bronwyn tried to bring forth the pieces of dismembered children, but they also evaporated. That is not going to work anymore; I already have acknowledged your perversion and most all of your other memories. You have nowhere to run, now, and I am not going anywhere. I have had my fill of your corruption; let's see what you think of my memories. Bronwyn laughed, you cannot hurt me, fool! There is nothing about you I do not know! It was not hard for Amanda to think of her pre-immortal life. It was nothing but hard work and squalor and filth and sickness. Bronwyn's laugh dissipated into screams of horror. She staggered away, trying to block the flood of degradation that assailed her, but she had no luck. With a shriek of rage, she launched herself at Amanda once again, but this time Amanda was prepared. She skipped away and brought her sword around in a slice that gashed open Bronwyn's face. The wound only enraged the woman, though, and soon Amanda had the fight of her life. There were times when once again that sea of blood seemed to drown her, but she fought back with memories of the filth in which she once had lived. With the colliding memories canceling each other out, Bronwyn did not stand a chance. Amanda was an excellent swordswoman, while Bronwyn had depended solely on her brothers and clan for protection. Amanda kicked her to the ground. Bronwyn was a disheveled, bloody mess. Her wounds were healing but her clothing was a shredded ruin. I am Amanda Derieux! I know who you are! I know WHAT you are! Amanda swung at Bronwyn, but she ducked and ran away from the vale wailing in fear. Amanda gave chase. You are not getting away, she screamed. Your memories are mine now….ALL OF THEM! You I do not need and will no longer suffer….._

…_she chased her forever, it seemed. Bronwyn began to shed other memories that were more pleasant as she ran away. These were accepted, acknowledged, or discarded in the blink of an eye. Then Amanda came upon the elves she had seen before. She stopped chasing Bronwyn to gaze upon them once again. It was damn near impossible to ascertain their feelings from their facial expressions due to how they looked. They seemed perturbed, though. The snowy haired female addressed her in a not very friendly tone. We told you to leave here since you do not belong. You never knew the Daoine Na Sidhe and you never will. The one you chase, she knew us….so long ago. Why do you torment her so? I am tormenting her? Look what she did to me! LOOK! And all you can do is act as if you are better than I. Well, I have news for you, bitch! You aren't better than I! You are only a memory of what was long ago; what is now extinct. Children hear of you in fairy tales and myth! How DARE you impugn me or condemn me! You have no right to do so; you were a memory of hers, but I killed that bitch! She took a menacing step towards the snowy haired female, sword upraised. The elf stepped back, a look of fear showing on her face. That's right, you do not like iron or such. I have no time to deal with your thinking you are better than humans because you lack any sort of understanding. You are my memory now, and I will deal with you as how I choose! The Daoine dissipated as well. She once more took up the chase; Bronwyn leaked other memories still, but they were fewer and fewer. She finally found Bronwyn at the clan house where she had once lived. It no longer looked like a charnel house; it looked rather banal now. Where was that filthy bitch, she thought. She heard noise from inside the structure. Oh well, she thought, and pulled open a door. A tidal wave of blood and body parts drenched her and threatened to wash her away, but she shrugged it off. She was tired of that; tired of this whole dream. She even felt tired in body, but she knew she could not rest until this was settled. She wandered through room after room; it was hard to imagine that this place could be so big. She heard the sound of a baby crying. She headed towards the sound, but a noise behind her made her stop and whirl around. Bronwyn was charging towards her with an axe raised to strike. Even up to the very end, though, Bronwyn lacked any sort of skill or finesse. Amanda ducked the blow and sank her left fist into the other woman's gut. She doubled over and dropped the axe. The baby cried again, and Amanda wanted to see where it was, but first things first. I killed you already, bitch, and now you die forever! She chopped off Bronwyn's head. There was no blood or quickening this time, though. As Amanda turned around to find the baby, the whole scene shifted and rippled. Then it shattered like glass, leaving only a soothing blackness to which Amanda gratefully surrendered….._

Gwyneth shrieked nearly at the same time Duncan looked up. There was a blue light show coming from Amanda's bedroom. Motioning for Gwyneth to stay put, he warily approached the door with sword in hand. Even though her hands had been tied above her head, nothing stopped the arc of blue lightning extending from her right hand _into the wound! _ Amanda convulsed as this was happening. The flow abruptly stopped _but now the wound was healing! _ The angry tendrils of infection were evaporating as well. The crackling ceased and the laceration was no more. Amanda slumped limply back to the bed, her breathing slow and steady as in sleep. Color was already returning to her skin. _Soon I guess, we shall see what we shall see. _ Duncan decided to keep his sword close to him. He might have need for it. He had already hidden Amanda's sword away after the last episode. He made sure the bonds were tight that held Amanda to the bed. Dawson's phone was still offline as well. It didn't matter, he supposed; as if Dawson would be able to help with this. He drew up a chair into a corner of the room to wait for whatever would be…


	23. Chapter 22

**Area of future England ca. 800 B.C.E.**

…_.the scene was almost idyllic. He had just broken his fast with some fresh food..that child was scrumptious! Taeg was around somewhere, probably seeking its own repast. He was washing up in a brook when he heard the screams and clash of battle. He was ever vigilant and he watched out for his friends. There was something amiss about the battle he was hearing. Then he knew. Despite his damping of his unique trait, he could still be sensed. This was not any novice pest of an immortal...it was an old one like him! He drew his sword and headed towards the sounds of conflagration. Taeg was locked in battle with…something. This something was extremely hirsute and showed some injury, but what wounds it had received were fast healing. Whatever it was, it was not as fast as the bog-beast, but considerably stronger. It even wielded a sword and shield. Well, it would not be able to match two of us. More power is always needed, he thought. He stumbled and half fell in his eagerness to join battle, and that was what saved his life. Something stung his ear while another thing ripped across his side. He clapped a hand to his ear and it came away bloody. He stopped and whirled around. Another one! This was… a Tuatha De Dannan! How in hell could that be possible! He had no time to ponder this incongruity though; the Daoine was upon him with their slender but deadly sword. He was no mean swordsman, but he was outclassed by the sheer skill of the one who faced him. It was now a good time to flee, but only if he could convince Taeg to do the same. A pained snarl erupted from his companion as he turned quickly to flee from this battle…..he would wait until there were more followers to aid him…._

…_he beheld a scene out of antiquity. It had once been a burial place for those of note….had been so. What cairns still standing had the marked look of age and decay, but something drew him closer to a particular cairn….there was something odd about it…as if what rested inside it only rested…..waiting….he touched the stone…..a painful shock jolted through him like quickening fire…._

Dougal awoke in a cold sweat, breathing heavy and labored. By degrees as he remembered where he was, his breathing slowed and came under his control again. He noticed Dhurgal peering at him intently.

"You dreamt of something, Dougal? What was it that made you quail in your sleep?" Dhurgal had a trace of a smirk on his visage.

"Nothing that would not have made you the same, brother. Taeg found one of our enemies so far, but others remain at least for the moment." Dougal arose from where he slept and rummaged through a rucksack he possessed. He extracted a battered tome of leather. Inside were various drawings of note, even what resembled a map of Wales. The pages crackled with age as Dougal pored over the drawings. With a crow of triumph, he placed his finger on a certain drawing.

"Dhurgal, I will need you to do something for me, something you will like doing. You will –"

"How do you know I will like doing it? I am tired of your orders. Who left you in charge! If uncle was—"

"I have to go to New York City to take care of that Laskey matter, and there is no one else! And as you have seen, uncle is not here. Some old friends await you." The more he explained, the more animated Dhurgal became. Yes, he would have some fun. As dawn rose over where they stayed, he was positively ecstatic.

_..She had won….barely so, but she was victorious. She thought about it for a moment….she was still who she was, but things were different. Some of the difference disturbed her, consisting of information she had not wanted to know, but other information was urgent. She had to tell him as soon as possible, she had to! Gradually her dreams gave way to reality…._

"Duncan? Are you here? Duncan!" It was more a croak than a shout; why was she so parched and her throat raw. She heard noise from outside her room as she stared in bewilderment at her bindings? What in hell was going on? She had just started to struggle with them when Gwyneth and Duncan walked in.

"Amanda!" Duncan approached her bed but she saw that he had his sword in hand under his coat. "What in HELL happened?" Duncan composed himself as best as he could before continuing. "You have been here for days near death, and I thought that wasn't possible! I need some—"

"Answers…I know." Amanda sighed, "Why am I tied up like this? I suppose if you want to play some kinky games, we can do that later, but I need at least a drink of water and- phew!" She wrinkled her nose at her odor.

"You don't remember anything? What was the last thing you _do_ remember?" He still had not made any move to untie her from her bindings.

"I cut off the head of some bitch that tore off a piece of me to eat, then I was here,and….that was not a dream! OH I am so sorry! That bitch made me do that! I had no control over her!" Amanda was crying. "But that bitch is dead, completely so." She sniffled, and then her eyes fell on Gwyneth. "Duncan! She is dangerous! They all are! I know why that monk was going to kill her!" Amanda strained at her bonds with grim purpose.

"Why would he want to kill me? What did I ever do?" Gwyneth still had her composure, but her eyes were wide in shock and disbelief at Amanda's outburst.

_"__Because you are Ap Hwywd like the rest of them, and he will not stop until you are all dead!" _ Duncan once again had that wary look in his eye as he backed away from Amanda's bed. "What did you just now say, Amanda? He looked at Gwyneth. "Well, you are the scholar. What did she say?"

"Duncan, I don't know! I have never heard any sort of Celtic dialect like that! It is as much song as speech." She looked at Amanda. She did not seem to have any trace of madness in her visage, but her eyes bored into Gwyneth.

"Your clan caused all of this! Clan Hwywd! And you are like them as well…Immortal! Now damn it Duncan, untie me now! I have more to tell you…your life depends on it!"

"I hid your sword. Am I going to have to hide anything else that you can use as a weapon too? Do I have your word that you will not raise a hand against Gwyneth or me? And how do you know Gwyneth is Immortal?"

"Yes!" Amanda hissed. "Once you find out what she is and what her clan did, I will not need to. Any with Green eyes and red hair are immortal regarding clan Hwywd!" She looked at Gwyneth. "Her eyes are blue; they should be green!" "_You will rue the day when he or one sided with him finds you. They will reave your life from your body!" _ She looked at Duncan and Gwyneth. "It is what is called Olden-Tongue or something like that. That bitch I killed spoke it." She tensed anew at her bindings. Duncan reached down to untie her.

"What are you doing!" Gwyneth was in fear. "She will only attack me again like she did before!" She ran out of the room into the one she stayed and slammed her door.

"I am extending a lot of faith in your direction, Amanda." Duncan laid a hand on his sword hilt for emphasis. "Don't make me regret it." He released Amanda from her bonds, but was warily eyeing her for any belligerent moves. As soon as Amanda was free, she headed towards the bathroom, shedding a soiled sheet as she did so. Only moments later he heard the shower running. Gwyneth looked at Duncan. "What if she decides to attack me again?"

"She won't; I intend that she will keep to her word. I will wait until she is done with her shower." Gwyneth harrumphed and sat back on the couch with a rather petulant look. Shortly After, Amanda emerged from the shower. Despite her new cleanliness, she looked haggard all the way up to dark circles under her eyes. "Duncan, you have anything to eat? I am starved. How long was I out?"

"A few days or so, what do you remember of what happened?"

"I was confronted by 10 immortals and a woman! The woman is who bit me. The monk killed the rest I believe." Amanda glared at Gwyneth, "One way or another, the obscenity that you and yours represents will be found and one way or another, you and yours will die!" Amanda laughed then and concentrated on the food in front of her.

Duncan looked at Gwyneth, "What did she just say? That sounded like what she said in the bedroom."

Before Gwyneth could answer, Amanda interjected. "It was a language they spoke a long time ago; it is dead now."

"Who is 'they'" Duncan asked, but his hand fastened itself on his sword hilt.

Amanda shrugged as she very nearly inhaled a massive sandwich of her own making. "The Daoine Na Sidhe; it was their language originally."

_The Daoine Na Sidhe? They are but a myth._ Duncan laughed, "And how do you know this, Amanda."

"That bitch I beheaded almost killed me, but I won. She and her kinfolk knew the Daoine Na Sidhe. They go back, her clan, to somewhere around 4000 B.C at least, perhaps even farther." Amanda next dived into a gooey sweet roll washed down with copious amounts of milk.

"How far back, Amanda?" Duncan was no longer amused at what he was hearing. Amanda could lie; oh, she could lie if needed. The very casual dropping of information was NOT like Amanda, unless she had some of the truth fixated in her head.

"Bronwyn Ap Hwywd is the one I killed. She was old, but not as old as most of the others. She is about maybe…6000 or 7000 years old?" Amanda fell back to eating.

_6000 or 7000 years old? __Does Dawson have any record of these people somewhere I hope! _"Amanda that may be as old as Methos He is the oldest immortal though."

"Death IS a liar, Duncan, he truly is. The Ap Hwywd's are older; the ones left alive anyways. Gwyneth is also an Ap Hwywd, but new to the game." Amanda drained her glass of milk, and then arose from the table where she was sitting.

"What about the monk? How does he fit into this?"

Amanda appeared to stare into space for a bit then snapped to. "He dresses like one, and maybe prays like one, but he was not always a monk. He is their sworn enemy. …The Destroyer! Clan Killer! Whatever he was called, it was not flattering. The one I killed had no way of seeing what happened to her clan, nor was she given any decent information. She was back at their clan house, but she narrowly escaped his wrath." Amanda looked around the apartment. "Duncan, do you have any clothes I could wear? I got to get going—"

"Amanda, what you just now said made no sense! She could not see what was happening to her? What in hell does that mean?"

Amanda glared at Duncan. "I don't know; it's like I have some answers, bit nowhere near all of them." "You are not going anywhere at the moment, neither you nor Gwyneth. It is way too dangerous out there right now; also, Amanda, you are the only one that I can trust to keep Gwyneth safe from that maniacal monk. Which reminds me; Amanda, do I have your WORD you will not harm Gwyneth while I am off to see someone?" Amanda was rubbing her eyes. "Yes, Duncan, you have my word. It really is no matter of consequence though; the monk will kill her on sight." Amanda then had a most serious look on her face. "Duncan, avoid that Monk at all costs; he will kill anything that gets in his way." She gave Duncan a rather strained smile. "While you are gone, I think I am going to get some more rest." As she heard the door shut, she whirled on Gwyneth. She had figured out where her sword was pretty fast, and that appeared in her right hand. Gwyneth cringed back in her seat, but Amanda paid her no mind. "If you endanger Duncan, I will take your head. This also I mean even if the Monk comes for it first." Amanda peered at the notebook laptop screen, "I see you are still playing with runes." Amanda looked up and down the list of characters. "He was right; one of the runed sequences does match up to Ap Hwywd."

Gwyneth was shocked. "You can read these runes?"

"Not extensively, but I can now read that much. Bronwyn was barely literate I think. Well, have fun with them; I need some more sleep." Amanda not only shut her door, but she locked it as well, leaving Gwyneth with a screen full of data and no useful information coming out of it. _I think I just lost a friend,_ Gwyneth thought as she perused her work.

It was a windy and rainy day outside. Duncan, however, wore his trench coat not just for its warmth, but to keep his Katana hidden. He had decided to take no chances, due in part to the events of the last week. He was on foot because he saw the heavy traffic and decided he would make better time on foot. Either method would have done him no good; as he approached where the Watcher HQ should have been; it was roped off with police tape and surrounded by a large amount of Gendarmes and cars. It looked like someone had blown the front doors down; some smoke still erupted from the higher floors. He asked a passerby. "What happened here?"

"Who in hell knows. Some lunatic walked up to the front doors and set off a bomb they were carrying. A whole bunch of people went in right after." _Who in hell would attack a building full of watchers? Who would gain from it? _Duncan did his best to clear his head. _I bet this place is closed down. I hope Dawson wasn't hurt. This could also be why he has not answered me. _Duncan's train of thought quickly drifted away as he saw something across the street. It was a figure in monks' robes. The monk's left hand glittered momentarily from the pale sun that was shining through. _Is this the same one that chased Amanda? _All thought of contacting Dawson or even Amanda left him as he sidled across the street. Maybe this would enable him to get some answers, something which no one at the moment would or could provide.

Unfortunately for Duncan, he was not the only one who was interested in the monk. Bronwyn was dead, that was true. This did not apply to her cohort, at least, most of them. They had attacked the watcher post on orders from her brother. They had succeeded at killing one watcher then three more, but at a horrible price. The other watchers remaining had retaliated with automatic weapons and axes. Three immortals had been despatched along with four mortals. Like flies on a fresh pile of dung, the remnants of her cohort collected into one place. They wept over her demise for only a short while; more important matters were at hand. Fifteen of them were immortal, these made the mortals among them leave. A sixteenth one straggled in with some interesting news: The Monk had been spotted. Once the uproar had died down, plans were made; Bronwyn would be avenged! The sixteen of them were going to follow this Monk…then they would take his head and have a big celebration! It was not long before they were off, either; they had no idea what sort of doom they were courting, though; they understood violence…but not Violence.

Brother Timothy had no concrete destination in mind…at first. As he traveled through south Paris and was in the outskirts, he suddenly remembered this general area. He bade the cabdriver to stop and reached into his pocket for the paper money he now had. The cabby waved it off, saying it would be a cold day if he ever charged a monk. Brother Timothy walked up a medium rise, then down the other side. There it was! Even at a distance, he could see what was left of the Manor proper; its moldering ruins, though covered by verdant plant life, still retained some sort of majesty. It was partially hidden by the newer buildings, including a church. As he approached the church, he saw that the original graveyard had been preserved, but intermixed with some newer stones and monuments. If he was right, then a fence would be somewhere…here! The fence was an actual fence now, decorative yet functional. He sized up the fence for possibly climbing it, but there were two groundskeepers staring at him. The only entry to the graveyard would be through the church. With a mild sigh of impatience, he headed inside the edifice. Inside the church was tastefully designed; what stained glass relief's that graced the building seemed muted and hushed, an ideal place for worship. The altar was draped in purple velvet and the cross and its sole occupant were done in a dark wood. He had seen the entry into the graveyard and was headed towards the entry when two frocked monks caught sight of him and approached.

"Good day to you, Brother. What brings you to our house of worship?" The first monk was a rather heavy set but jovial looking person. "I was in the area and I recognized the ruins and the graveyard. You would think that they would have removed them and used the land to build something else?" The second Monk looked in shock at the statement." Heavens, no! Years before, it was declared a historical monument! Considering its past, it does at time fill me with ill feeling though; the rumors surrounding its demise are most –"The first monk interjected. "I do not think he came all this way to be told of mere rumor; from where have you traveled, Brother?" Brother Timothy shrugged. "I am from a Monastery in England near St. Albans. I wished to see if the graves of some people I knew were still in existence, but it looks like the only entry was through here. You have a peaceful edifice here; it is soothing. The ruins, are they not of the barony of Mont Fourier? Isn't there also some other Baronial ruins in this area? From a family named La Cressier?" At this point, the two other monks became slightly agitated. "You seem to be quite conversant regarding this matter; how did you know of those two names?" "I have read a lot of history, especially that of Europe. What of the La Cressier Barony?" "That building was razed long ago; the people at the time when it existed considered it evil!" The second brother was vehement. "Though my fellow monk here considers it rumor, the legend has it that in revenge for a foul betrayal, one of our own murdered most all that dwelled in Mont Fourier! To this day, we seem to still suffer penance; so say part of it is that being required to stay on our wall!" The brother jerked his hand to a painting on the side wall of the church. Despite its rather primitive style, it was easy to see that a figure in brown robes was being burned in a fire, as in tied to a stake. In the background could be seen others doing the same to a building of some stature. It also appeared that what looked like spirits were ascending to heaven. "I came here for some peaceful and restive contemplation rather then dwell on such violent imagery; may I enter the graveyard to find those who I may know?" The agitation had left the two brothers, but their gazes were still piercing and animated. "Yes, you may. Good day to you Brother Timothy; may your contemplation be as fruitful as your knowledge." The two brothers walked away, animatedly discussing some matter. Brother Timothy walked into the graveyard. If he was right, the grave should be in the northwest corner. The problem, though, was twofold. There had been a lot of activity here since that time; newer and more ornate gravestones abounded. The second problem was that the graveyard had greatly expanded, so it took a few moments to become oriented in the right direction. Fortunately, the grounds were well tended; both the old as well as the new were easy to find. He found the grave he sought after a longer walk than he anticipated, but here it was._ One of the countless number I dug with my own hands! _ The stone of which the marker was constructed had suffered over the centuries from weather and wear, but the inscription could still be read with some concentration:

**Marie Baroness La Cressier**

**1140-1169**

**Requiescat An Pace**

Brother Timothy bowed his head to the stone after getting down on one knee, and then raised himself back up. He sighed heavily as he looked around at the verdancy that surrounded him. For nearly the first time that he could recall, he actually felt some regret at the death he had wreaked earlier; it was as if there was another voice in his head weeping and imploring for a different way of resolving the matter. _When it has to do with an Ap Hwywd, there is no other way!_ Still, the more he relaxed in the graveyard, the more remorse he seemed to feel. Even though this _was_ holy ground, the monk knew the score; they would attack him here if they felt they had an advantage. Rules no longer mattered to them; with their sundering of the truce, there WERE no more rules. He had not lived this long by blindly obeying such missives, though he tried as best he could. He stared down at Marie's resting place. _Yes, there was another time I felt some remorse, but it was only after. I did my best to listen to you, Marie, but I guess it was not enough. Did you ever really matter to me? Did what you once said to me, did it fall on deaf or ossified ears? Or was I disillusioning myself? I am so sorry, Marie, so sorry…for what little good it will now do._ For the first time in a long time, the monk wept, looking truly penitent as he kneeled at the grave….._._

**Area of Antony, France 1169**

_Brother Timothy awoke to what would be another beautiful day in the early spring; there would be a chill in the air, but plenty of sun. He arose and stretched before washing his face then donning a robe. There was a brook not too far off from where he now lived; after washing himself in the brisk waters, he went back to the Barony to get some repast. He was eating the stale bread and slightly gamey venison in front of the Barony of La Cressier when he heard his name called. He looked to see a rather prim young lady with her escort. "Brother Timothy, you must hear the news! The Baron of Mont Fourier has agreed to a cessation of hostilities! Is it not wonderful?" Marie was Baroness of the La Cressier Barony, some distance form Paris. She had worn well as could be in this time for her twenty nine years. He had lived here for the last seven years; she was in need of a minion of the Church to guide her household in matters spiritual, and at the time, he had no place to go. She had gained the title by marriage to a much older man, but he had died without offspring. Marie was in both a very good but very dangerous position. The Barony of Mont Fourier was also aware of this, and for a few years now, they had done their best to encroach upon Marie's holdings. Had not the Baron had his own wife and family, he would have probably tried to win her hand in marriage. As such, he devoted his time gaining as much in holdings as possible, by any means available to increase his power and influence. It was also said that he had eyes on the throne of France if the matter so presented itself. He had met the Baron and several of his retinue; they were simply men of their time. Brother Timothy shook his head as he smiled. Marie was refreshing in many ways, but naïve in others; he always felt that part of his job was to educate her as best he could. "That is all good on the surface, but what are the terms of this truce, milady?" "He will cease raiding our village for guards and field workers as long as we agree to support him with our resources if he so decides to head for Rheims. Is this not a wonderful day, Brother Timothy?" "I would take care that he upholds his end of the bargain; such men like that are not to be trusted. They would sunder any peace they forged if it gained what they wished. The Louis King is still hale; for him to be eyeing the cathedral is a lofty yet dangerous goal indeed." Marie apprised the monk for a moment then spoke. "You have never in all your years here failed to give me good advice; also, you have always been ready to hear my confession of my sins. I think at times you take a dim view of your fellow man, as if all you think they are capable of is wrack and ruin? Why ever not can you have a more cheerful countenance?" Brother Timothy thought for a moment. "I am conversant with the ways of men; they will invariably resort to violence if they can not get what they wish by scheming and plotting. At times I think that no man can be happy with peace and belief in their Lord God for salvation." He sighed. "When will this truce be concluded? I will be there if milady so wishes it." Marie's cheerful demeanor had melted like the snow in the sun. "Those who live by violence and glorify it, shall assuredly meet their end in the same manner! You may have yet to learn some things from me, despite my youth! Peace is the only answer to conflict…NOT MORE CONFLICT! They will arrive at the Barony tonight to sign the truce and to celebrate. If I have need for you, I will summon you!" With an abrupt snap of her head away from him, her entourage trundled into her estate. Brother Timothy finished his food. H__e was not angry at her outburst; he actually chuckled to himself. Peace is the answer? How he would have loved to trade places with her and her unending optimism. If this Barony agreed to a peace despite their far stronger position, there had to be a catch. It was the only way Brother Timothy could think; the millennia had taught him to be right most every time. He tried to imagine peace, not only without, but also within. Did he not worship the Lord God, whose only son died on a cross to save us? The same entity that struck you with lightning so long ago? Marie's words did start something of a conflict within him though; her words would haunt him for the longest time…_

_ Brother Timothy was tending his garden next to the barony when he heard the sound of a cohort approaching. It was nearing sundown. He arose from his toil and brushed the dirt from his robes. He actually had changed a little in the time he had spent here; it was Marie that convinced him to not carry around that horrible sword or wear the greave. She said it greatly upset her vassals as well as her guards; some were also a bit more curious then he would have liked. He had sequestered them away in his sleeping quarters so as to be at hand if needed. Also, out of sight also meant out of mind, thus quenching any curiosity. It gave him much freer movement without their weight encumbering him. The screams and clashes of metal first told him something was wrong. As he went from a walk to a fast trot then a dead run, he saw before him just what he had hoped he would not see. The Baron had arrived, but by no means for any peace accord; they had arrived with a heavily armed cohort. While his small party accosted the same from Marie's Barony, perhaps two score of armed soldiers erupted from the hedges near the entry. The welcoming party was quickly killed as the whole force joined and rode at a dead run to the entrance. He had with him several crossbowmen and a priest frocked much like himself. There was a priest present with the group? As the force approached the entrance, they split up to roughly surround the Barony. Brother Timothy by reflex reached behind him for his sword, but he realized it was not there just as he was seen by the Fourier forces. _

"_What is the meaning of this betrayal, Baron Mont Fourier!" Brother Timothy thundered. _

_The baron was in full armor on his horse. He laughed before he spoke. "Make sure none of them escape, especially Marie; I want her ALIVE! We will never make peace with this insult of a Barony, EVER! We will take her lands for our own!" _

_The priest with the Baron pointed at Brother Timothy. "There is her heretical confessor, a scion of the devil! Kill him to remove his corruptive influence!" _

_Brother Timothy ran toward the retinue with murder on his mind, but the crossbow men were faster. 2 quarrels missed, but two did not. One struck him in the stomach while the other delivered a more mortal wound to his chest. He managed to stagger a few steps closer to the entourage before collapsing. "Why have you done this? She only wanted peace!" Brother Timothy's lungs began to fill with blood while his vision rapidly dimmed. The last thing he remembered was the laughter that ensued regarding anything about peace, not only from the priest, but also the Baron….he never thought to forcibly heal the wounds; it would have done no good anyways…_

…_.a light drizzle was falling when Brother Timothy next became aware. The pain…THE PAIN! Fortunately, the crossbow quarrels were not barbed, but extracting them was no less painful due to their deeper penetration. Once they were yanked from his chest and stomach, the healing rapidly occurred and soon he was whole again. He spat out some mud and offal that had collected in his mouth and then arose from his muddy place of repose. At once the charnel house stench assailed his nostrils, along with the smell of smoke. The Barony La Cressier was a total ruin; the windows were smashed and smoke still billowed from several apertures. Bodies littered the entryway and no sounds or cries came from within. Brother Timothy sighed; his time here was done, there was nothing left of any significance. Marie had underestimated her adversary and probably had paid a horrible price. Everywhere he looked there was ruination and death. He was no stranger to this sort of slaughter, but it still managed to pain him upon viewing it. Peace treaty indeed; with it the sort of wrack and ruin only men would machinate. He needed his belongings, though; hopefully they would be undisturbed. Looking about quickly to see if anyone was still around, he headed into what remained of the Barony…_

…_it was as he suspected. What had not been destroyed, killed or smashed to ruin had been taken away as plunder. Evidence of rapine also abounded; any female that lay dead had been violated, from young to not so young. Some of the younger males had been treated the same way. His sleeping quarters had been rifled; his small nave smashed, but he hid things well. He extracted his greave, sword and scabbard and mounted them all. The weight was only unfamiliar for the shortest time. It was time to leave this place; maybe he would go back to the Monastery of Saint Timothy's. He considered revenge on the Baron, but he discarded that thought in a moment; there was just no point in it. Who knows why the Baron had decided on treachery; human mortals mystified him often. The other aspect was that humans had started getting wise to his kind; what used to be awe from the mortals was giving over to fear and hatred now. He himself had also noticed more immortals popping up on the landscape. It was best that if he simply disappear; in thirty years, all the major players of note here would be dead. He found Marie in the main room tied spread eagled using some cloth and whips. All of her clothing had been ripped off of her. Her breasts showed numerous bite marks and her vagina was a red ruin. Her throat had been slashed to the bone after she had entertained god knew how many rapists. Someone had even cut a mark on her forehead. You were born in the wrong time, Marie. He closed the eyes frozen open in an expression of horror then he stroked her once pretty hair. Blood flaked off from the cut on her head. Brother Timothy peered closer. This was not a random cut…something was carved into her forehead! He rubbed away some more of the cut until the markings became clear. It was a …RUNE! He peered at the rune; who in hell could have….wait! He had seen that rune before! Memories not welcome flooded back….memories long ago…when he had been happy. He still had the crown he wore then, safely hidden away in his Monastery in England…but there WAS another crown…he had never found that one….only her severed head ….and violated body….on his crown he had inscribed a rune, but on hers…..he had placed another…..THE SAME ONE AS WAS ON MARIE! He hunkered down besides the corpse to think…..who could have inscribed that mark! THEY would have killed him on sight, he might now be alive simply by dumb luck…unless….unless… it was deliberate provocation? Someone else could have been instructed on placing that rune; had it been one of THEM, he would be dead…..he immediately was expending his effort to keep the rage buried inside; it had been buried these last years. He would have just walked away, but who put THAT rune on her head! Fortunately, the people approaching were not worried about the noise they made. Brother Timothy jumped to his feet; his sandals made not a sound as he hid in the shadows. _

_Three drunken soldiers noisily made their way into the ruins of the Barony. They surveyed their handiwork with a lot of laughter." That Baroness was a fine fuck she was!" "Yeah, but you got to go a lot earlier than we did. All we got was some eight year old boy!" The third soldier stopped, pulled out his dick, and pissed a stream of yellow onto Marie's corpse. He then tucked it away to fresh guffaws of laughter. The third soldier was carrying a crossbow, so he was the first to fall. He never heard the step of sandal, only the whistling sound of doom. Decapitated, his body followed his head to the ruined floor._

_Brother Timothy stepped over the corpse and confronted the two others in the stoniest of silences. The soldiers were simply in shock. Their friend has just been killed by a monk. This one was covered in gore and mud but held a massive looking sword. "Who marked the Baroness with that rune?" _

_The second soldier recovered some composure, enough to draw his longsword. "You killed my friend! You will follow him shortly!" The soldier swung his sword, which was blocked by what the monk held. Suddenly, the soldier was holding but a nub of sword; the blade had been sheared off! As he stared stupidly at his ruined weapon, an armor encased fist smashed his nose into his brain, killing him instantly. His corpse joined his companions. _

"_I am waiting for an answer. Who cut this mark into the BARONESS!" Brother Timothy grabbed the remaining soldier's hauberk in his left hand and hauled him up on to the tips of his toes. _

"_The Baron did that! I saw him do it myself!" _

"_WHY did he do __it?" _

_The Soldier gulped. "He said someone told him to, someone that lives in his estate! They said it would be a funny joke!" _

"_Who said that this would be a funny joke? That piece of shit Oathbreaker who is your liege? Or did someone else utter that?"_

"_His guests did!" The soldier screamed as the monk increased the tension on the hauberk. "He has two guests at his Barony! The man suggested it!" _

"_Describe this man, NOW"_

" _Tall, with red hair and green eyes! She looks rather pretty even though she is with child." The soldier then looked aghast at the monk. "You were dead…DEAD! I saw you fall with two quarrels in you!" _

_He broke the soldier's neck with little effort. Brother Timothy cast the corpse to the floor. He stood for hours it seemed processing the information he had been given, but it was only moments. "No, you are dead, and maybe many more will wish they were." He sighed and looked down at Marie's freshly befouled corpse. He needed to think on this matter, and he knew how that could be accomplished…first, he sheathed his sword…._

…_dawn was not too far away when Brother Timothy arrived at the graveyard on hallowed ground. He had cleaned up Marie as best he could then found a cart to transport her corpse. He had found an uninjured draft horse that helped him with the task. He picked a spot and began to dig in the loam. The work helped him to clear his mind of all but two clashing chains of thought….._

…_Violence only begets more violence…that rune was on her crown…peace is the only answer to the brutality that assails us in this day…..would a fool mortal have done this deed as a joke without being prodded to do so?...I never found her crown….only her head...peace must be made at any cost…..who could have provoked him to be an Oathbreaker….I was at peace there for several years…I should simply move on…Colluill…..mortals will never change…Gwynach….not fast enough to suit my needs….Ap Hwywd…what are my needs….I need Peace!...and you will only have it…..King's Justice is an Onerous thing….when they are all dead…..peace in the only way you can effect it…the only way they understand….Darksword….I am not Darksword!...hollow laughter…..and you are not Brother Timothy, either….Ardis…..Ardis of Clan Anon…Ardis Ap Anon…..ArdisAnon…show them what transgression will cause them…..get an answer from that murderous Oathbreaker…regardless of the cost….then deal with those you must…in the coin they earned…._

…_he had dug deeply enough, but he was silently weeping. He had stopped doing so when he gently laid Marie into the ground and covered her with soil. No more tears would come. He had made several gravestones_ _while he had lived there; someone had to bury the dead. He emplaced one at the head of her grave and skillfully chipped her epitaph into the surface with some tools he had found. He rubbed a mixture of coal dust and oil into the grooves, working it in as deeply as he could before wiping off the excess. As he hunkered down by the grave, his features were almost completely drained of emotion. Rest in peace, Baroness, a peace I may never have. You always said that violence begets more violence; I believe you are right, but I, unlike you, cannot innocently seek peace, not this time. Maybe some other time and place it will be possible….if you are in a better place, I hope you forgive me for what I must do in order to find any peace….he washed off the dirt from both his exertions and from his demise….he did not feel fully well…but he now had a purpose….he had decided that he needed answers from this Baron; one way or another he would get them…_

…_..his countenance may as well have been stone for all the emotion it showed. He made his way back to the ruined Barony in the dawn, keeping out of sight of anyone about. He knew what the plants were even before he was next to them; these castor plants would kill most painfully if rendered properly. He was laughing as he picked their seeds like a child picking flowers, but no child would have this sort of glittering rage in their visage or murderous laugh, nor would they be reaping the means of mass murder….by mid-morning, a fire burned in a ruined hearth at the Barony….but inside the small cauldron death was being concocted…Brother Timothy stirred the broth with a long stick so as not to be near any fumes…brewing death this way was not a skill he had perfected…better safe than not…_

…_.he had found an unbroken clay jar with a cover. The rendered seed powder went into the jar then it was sealed. He once again checked that he had what things he needed and owned: His sword and greave, the scroll denoting the alleged peace between the Baronies, and a jarful of deadly persuasion…..he departed the Barony La Cressier…never to return…._

…_he had overheard enough to justify his plan of action. Marie De Cressier was allegedly a whore minion of the Devil himself, with Brother Timothy assisting in the satanic rites of ritual sacrifice. As such, she and all with her deserved to die. He also discovered a loaded wagon of provender bound for the Barony of Mont Fourier. He shadowed the wagon until he had his chance. The driver needed to take a shit and the guards with him decided to eat their lunch. It was too easy to creep up to the wagon and contaminate most all of the provender within reach, meats and grain and even a crock of fresh butter. He used the whole amount rather than be sparing about it; he did have a point to make after all….._

…_the next several days it rained in torrents. Brother Timothy did not dare be seen by the villagers, so he hid out in an abandoned building. There were enough gaps in the rain so that he was able to forage for his needs. He had dried out his damaged robe as best he could and put it away; he had stolen another one for wearing for this time. The thought of gaining some revenge against the priest who had accused Marie and himself of satanic doings crossed his mind, but it was brushed aside in favor of patience…._

…_it had been six days since he had poisoned the provender, the skies cleared. The evening was chilly, but a clear sky and sizeable moon made seeing easy. He was going to pay the Barony a little visit. He changed into his damaged robe; perhaps he could instill a little fear into those who deserved it…._

…_at first sight, it looked encouraging, no discernible activity and few lights present. Brother Timothy took no chances though. He managed to get in through the rear of the Barony without being detected. The stench of offal and decay was heinous; shortly after entry, he saw the first corpses twisted into agony. He heard noises coming from the main part of the Barony, so slowly he headed in that direction….._

…_the eating table of the main room resembled a charnel house. Bodies were strewn haphazardly around the area in various poses of agony, interspersed with spilled wine and rancid meat and mold-covered bread. The noise came from the head of the table near the further wall. The further wall held some tapestries and two rather ornate looking chairs. Over the chairs was a coat of arms of the Mont Fourier Barony on a shield. Above it were two long swords. Brother Timothy intended to walk up to where the people were very quietly gathered without announcing himself, but a still living guard ended that approach. The guard was able to let out a loud enough cry as they struck with their sword to make the group at the head of the table take notice. Brother Timothy blocked the feeble blow then crushed the guard's throat with his left hand. "Stay dead!" the monk snarled, "You assuredly do deserve it!" A crossbow quarrel whipped by him, plucking at his robe._

_The effect on the people in the group was like kicking an ant hive, though. Within moments, no less than seven armed or armed and armored men formed a rough half circle around the group facing outward towards Brother Timothy. A few of them had hands on their swords while one of them was ratcheting a crossbow. Brother Timothy crouched down low; fortunately there was plenty of shadow in which to hide because many of the torches in the eating hall were no longer burning. He tripped over another corpse and swore an oath as he kicked it viciously aside. Another crossbow quarrel flew at him. He slowly worked his way up the hall towards the group of people. He peered through the gaps between the soldiers to see The Baron seated on a chair. Next to him was a wailing woman holding the stiff body of an older boy in her arms. She was being comforted as the boy was removed from her grasp and wrapped in a soiled sheet. The baron and his wife were surrounded by people in various garb; no others were dressed as soldiers, only what looked to be servants and children. One young little girl stared with vacant eyes. A priest was also present; the very same one who had called him a heretic. He was giving the boy's corpse the last rites. The tallest of the soldiers was in plate armor and his demeanor spoke of some authority. _

"_Who is present here and why do you trespass on the Baron's demesne? SHOW YOUR FACE AT ONCE!" _

_Brother Timothy spoke from the shadows. "Do you not see that I am also penitent to God?" He walked slowly into the lighted area and stopped about ten feet from the group. "Good evening to the residents of the Barony of Mont Fourier. I see that you enjoyed your repast. A shame that the poison did not kill more of you, but at least the baron is still alive; that means he may be able to answer some questions I have." Brother Timothy's chuc__kle at the end lacked any humor. _

_The leader of the soldiers, who was actually a Man-At-Arms, shook with rage as his face turned red. "Fully 135 people lived here until eating of that provender! Now barely a score are still living, minus the one you just killed! The baron's oldest son is dead and others of his family are still sick! And you have the GALL to walk in here and gloat over your hideous act of MURDER!" The Man-At-Arms raised his hand and pointed at Brother Timothy. _

_The crossbowman raised his weapon and fired. The quarrel buried itself into Brother Timothy's right shoulder; the impact knocked him back so he stumbled. He yanked the bolt out of his arm and tossed it to the floor. The crossbowman was in shock, but hurriedly ratcheted another quarrel. "I actually agree with The Church on that count; those are ill weapons in any manner; use it again against me and I will kill you where you stand." Brother Timothy looked at the Man-At-Arms. "Regarding your question, I am not really sure of the answer. Is there an equivalent of remorse for those at the Cressier Barony? The ones raped and murdered? I freely admit poisoning the people here; as far as I am concerned, you got off far easier than the people at the Barony of La Cressier. You killed everyone there and violated all the women. At the moment, I have left some alive here to weep and I have not violated any of your women…yet. Now, regarding your Baron, he will tell me where his guests are. Murder for murder is fair as I see it. It is interesting how mortals do not like their own rules used against them; they will call on some hypocritical piety towards God. In my humble opinion, your actions render you godless." _

_Brother Timothy stepped closer to the soldiers; the Man-At-Arms drew his sword from its scabbard. "That was a neat trick, whoever you are. You will not be able to do the same with my steel in your vitals! You are a filthy coward who not only will not show their face, but preys upon the innocent! You are nothing but the dirt that still clings to your robe!" He laughed loudly at his own riposte as did the other soldiers. _

"_You and yours are a bane upon my existence; and you have the gall to call me a coward? Look at whom you serve first. Instead of peace, you brought rapine and slaughter to these lands, Baron! Now I have visited the same upon you and yours." _

_The Man-At-Arms was once again livid as the priest stepped forth. "The Cressier Barony was involved with doings of the devil! The Baron acted under his devotion to God!" Brother Timothy turned to the priest. "You should be thankful you wear priestly garb; that is the only reason you are still alive. You are a most fell sort of liar; your perfidy does naught but besmirch the robe you wear. You attacked the La Cressier Barony for no reason; it was unprovoked. I believe you called me a heretic? You remember me, brother priest?" Brother Timothy pulled back his hood then looked at the priest. The priest's face blanched as he backed away from Brother Timothy. "My lord, he was felled with two quarrels from our host! It is impossible that he is here to berate us! It must be the work of the devil!" _

_Brother Timothy laughed an icy laugh. "Some of us do not die so easy__ but. I am through dealing with your puerile hypocrisy." Next Brother Timothy spoke to the Baron. "I am surmising that you are illiterate as are most. I was told by a soldier of yours that you cut a RUNE into Marie La Cressier's forehead. Why did you do that? I would have walked away from your treachery and perfidy but for that mark. I am told someone told you to place it there on her head. You will now tell me WHO!" The priest turned nearly as pale as a sheet. He backed away from Brother Timothy as he raised a cross and mouthed a paean in Latin. _

_Brother Timothy's laugh was one of pure malevolence. __"You can pray all that you want to your Christ God; I have been doing so for over five hundred years, but more often than not, he brings me fools like you. There are Gods who predate Christ and most all of them never believed in peace; peace only allows your enemies to grow stronger." _

_A few of the soldiers now looked very pale; two had backed away from Brother Timothy; one muttered a foul oath aimed at the monk, while the other screeched, "That was the one we felled at their Barony, my Liege! But that is impossible!" _

"_I want an answer NOW, Baron! Someone told you to put that rune there, did they not? Someone with red hair and green eyes! Tell me I am wrong truthfully, and I will leave this accursed place for good!" There was utter silence in the hall. _

_The Baron, though as pale as the rest, laughed. "I should treat with some devil-whore as an EQUAL! I would never think so, not under any circumstance. Why use a treaty when I can have what I want by force! She was a very satisfying fuck to boot; I was first! My guest told me to cut that into her forehead, to remind him of some fond memories!" He glared back at the monk. "You will pay dearly for your act of murder and trespass in my own demesne as well as your unholy alliance with the Devil! You will wish that you never ever lived! Seize HIM!" _

_The man-at-arms and two soldiers advanced; the man-at-arms closed the distance first and laid a rough hand on the monks' right arm. The monk twisted out of the grip and backed away with what appeared a slow gait. So encouraged, the three soldiers moved forward at a faster pace. The monk suddenly put on a burst of speed in a backwards skipping motion. Brother Timothy drew his sword and held it at a rest position. "I want an answer, Baron! Your continued existence hangs upon it! Your cohort will not protect you; they are nothing to me." The Man-At-Arms swung his sword down in an attack. Brother Timothy easily parried the blow, but instead of going back to a rest position, he snapped his sword forward and then across. His sword cut a gouge in the Man-At-Arm's breast plate. The Man-At-Arms hesitated; he had not seen the blow coming! Brother Timothy spoke in an icy tone. "Think long and hard before you and yours assail me again; you will die if you oppose me, to a man you will die!" The three soldiers as quickly backed away as they had come forward. This monk is of god, and he carries arms?_

_The Baron's words had sunk into Brother Timothy. This person felt not the slightest bit of remorse over what he did. This mortal at least could only see a tree, not the forest. He was going to speak again, but then he FELT something ….he knew what it was; it was on the edges of his perception but rapidly getting stronger. He raised his head and began scanning the area. He ignored the soldiers and their immediate threat to him because he knew who was approaching. There was no way for either of them to hide; both possessed way too much power to ever do that. As in a perverse sort of greeting, a tendril of blue quickening fire crackled up his left arm and spiraled around his head before dissipating. The soldiers froze in their tracks as Brother Timothy backed away, re-sheathing the sword and covering his head with the hood once more, now wary of danger from any quarter. He made an attempt to hide in the shadows as Colluill Ap Hwywd emerged from behind the tapestries behind the chairs. He stood over a head taller than Brother Timothy, but with a more lithe appearance. He was clad in a rather garish outfit which had perhaps eight shades of green, from a forest green pair of boots to a vibrant spring green hat. He looked almost like a human representation of a tree, but no tree ever bore on its branches as foul of a thing which he held. In his right hand he held a satchel which he placed on the floor. In his left hand he held the bloody severed leg of a young child. He was tearing meat from the bone with his sharpened teeth as if it were some sort of perverted drumstick, one of the most gruesome anyone could imagine. His fiery red hair was hanging loose down to his shoulders and his green eyes flickered in delight as he eyed his repast. Then a flicker of blue lightning erupted on his body as well. This made Colluill halt in his tracks. "Good evening Baron. A shame at the death that has been caused here today, but it at least has created some lovely repast for me, don't you think?" Colluill's banter was only for surface appearances, though. He was also scanning the room until his gaze focused on Brother Timothy hidden partially in the shadows. The Baron's priest was aghast at what he was seeing; cannibalism was a profanity against god! Then he had seen this other monk DIE at the other barony! He only prayed all the harder while doing his best to shield the children from Colluill and the monk. _

_Colluill spoke to the Baron. "Who is our guest in the monks robe? Did I not say that we did NOT want to be disturbed while staying here?" _

_The Baron chortled, "That heretic bastard was asking about the rune you told me to place on that devil-whore's forehead. He poisoned my cohort and almost cheerfully admitted it. I was going to have him seized before you showed up." The Baron looked at his men. "Seize that murderous heretic!" _

"_Colluill Ap Hwywd, just as you were described. It has been a long time." What could be seen of Brother Timothy's visage from what the hood allowed to appear was frozen in stone, his expression as grim as could possibly be. The soldiers, including The Man-At-Arms, did not obey; on the one hand, the monk had freely admitted to poisoning most everyone in the Barony, but the red headed guest was eating a CHILD! The man-at-arms also had a GOUGE on his plate armor from where the monk had struck him. This aforementioned monk was also armed with a sword and a demeanor that stated he would freely use it if needed; they also showed no ill effects from the crossbow bolt. _

_Brother Timothy was next to speak, in as icy a tone as he could use. "You have admitted to cutting that Rune into Marie's forehead, then. And this is the one that told you to do it?" _

_The Baron laughed again, but it was Colluill that spoke. "I thought it would bring back fond memories. The concept of peace is so revolting, anyways. It is so hard to find proper provender when there is peace." Colluill continued eating the child's leg as he spoke, unmindful of the blood on his face or the quickening fire that he evinced. "Baron," said Colluill, "why haven't you seized this piece of dog excrement and imprisoned him? Gwynach is abed and __cannot be disturbed." _

_Brother Timothy barely held his rage in check. They provoked yet again, using a mortal to do so. There were other ways to provoke though. He smiled as he addressed the Baron. "I see your guest has shown himself. When __I'm finished here Baron, you will have nothing to show for your treachery. " Brother Timothy turned to Colluill. "__Maybe this will bring back fond memories as well, Colluill? You ran away like a coward on a horse after saving Bronwyn. Do you remember? Can you still see the whistling harbinger of death that cleaved its way through your charnel-filled clan house?"_

_Colluill choked on a mouthful of human flesh as he glared at the monk. "__Who are you? How is it you know this speech? Show your face this instant!" __The reaction of the others in the room was predictable considering what had already transpired. On top of what had already happened, the Baron's guest and the monk were talking in some sort of language that seemed like a flowery song, except it was not matched by at least the monk's demeanor. Blue lightning crackled across the monk's frame in fits and starts. Colluill evinced the same sort of spectacle. Brother Timothy walked out of the shadows. No one stood between Brother Timothy and Colluill anymore. The man-at-arms had gestured his soldiers away from the both of them; now, he and two soldiers protected the Baron and his wife while the priest conferred with the other soldiers. Colluill had picked up the sack he had carried earlier and was standing by a brazier. _

_The priest spoke. "What manner of heathen language was that you two spoke? I will have to cleanse this place of heretical—"_

" _SHUT UP, YOU FOOL!" Colluill was very agitated and had lost his casual demeanor. He glared directly at the hooded monk. "__Who are you so that you speak the eldritch tongue as I do?" "I was once known by a different name, Colluill. I was tasked with King's Justice some time ago as a result of a woman's truthful accusations. Do you remember me now?" _

_Colluill's face lost all expression of sanity as his green eyes went wide with shock. "__FOUL DESTROYER of our Clan House!" _

_Brother Timothy's tone grew even icier.__ " DEFILER! You and yours defiled Temair and earned the sentence against you. It has been near 5000 years since death was decreed by my own hand. So shall it be, too. You will not leave here alive, nor will Gwynach."_

"_You are a Destroyer! Look what you have wreaked upon these poor people!" _

"_You provoked me; that is how it always has been. Do not insult me with your charade of actually caring; you and yours never did care; only the Daoine were more uncaring. What this is represents the price you pay….in BLOOD! Now you will learn the true price of transgression!"_

"_Not if I kill you first, DESTROYER!" Colluill had lighted something from the brazier's fire and threw it at Brother Timothy. It shattered on his robes and enveloped him in flames. Vitriol! Brother Timothy screamed at the pain as he tried to beat out the flames and quell the burning sensation. Some of it had splashed into his eyes as well, blinding him. The pain was intense, but he had to flee! He turned and blindly ran away from the group as another something smashed close by. He could smell the acid. He had to get away! He grunted in pain when he blundered into the oaken table, but realized it might be his salvation. He rolled himself onto the table, heedless of what bodies or foodstuffs were in his way. The action quelled the flames that the acid had ignited. He fell onto the floor on the other side with a grunt of hard impact. He had foolishly not paid close enough attention to the Ap Hwywd, but that seemed to have been temporarily abated. He heard no steps following him or the sound of a sword. When his vision did not clear fast enough, he accelerated the process with quickening energy. Not a second too soon, he rolled to his feet and ran from yet another container of flaming acid that exploded against the wall and started to consume the wood there. He turned back to where the group was, but his line of sight was impaired by the fires Colluill had started and the smoke as well….he walked about halfway down until he could step over the top of the table and come down on the original side. The robe smoked in a few places, but __it was of a sturdy design….too much peace, he thought; he advanced through the carnage and flame towards the voices…..he began to sing a song of devastation and bloodshed as he unhooded himself once again…._

"_Had your fools here seized him, I would not have had to create such a mess." Colluill laughed. "I doubt that he survived that vitriol. Baron Fourier, when the flames abate, have your men find his corpse and bring it to me!"_

_The priest spoke. "You are an abomination before GOD!"_

"_For the last time, I told you to shut up!" Colluill hit the priest in the head with the remainder of his grisly repast __and then wiped the blood from his face with a piece of linen. The priest shied away from the leg with a screech, but began to pray to his God. _

"_You do need to hire better help though, Baron Mont Fourier." _

_The Baron looked somewhat ill at ease; his arrogance had wilted before Brother Timothy's promise. "Why were you scared of that monk? And how is it that he knew your name? Do you two know each other?" The Baron's stare was part wary and part accusatory. _

"_THAT matter is of no concern to you. All you must be concerned with was our agreement. You have the La Cressier lands and more gold than you could hope to spend. In return, you will provide Gwynach and me with safe haven while she gives birth. Do I make myself clear? Do not dare nose into matters that are of no concern of yours again!" _

_It was then that the priest shrieked and __began to shield the children even more. The man-at-arms spoke. "What in god's name or in hells creation is that which you assailed! He fights with a sword near the size of mine, but he wields it like a stick? What sort of person penitent to God carries such a weapon as they carry? And what is it that we are now hearing?" Colluill heard it clear as a bell; his face was drained of all color. The flames still fed merrily on what fuel they had, but there was something carrying over their roar, something almost singsong, like some demented child's language….then a figure walked through the carnage….it was the monk, the same who had just been burned by flaming vitriol and his hands were clenched into fists…._

_Colluill was in shock only for a moment, replaced by fear and anger. Somehow his enemy had survived the conflagration! He would make sure this time though. He still had several containers of the vitriol left. Screaming obscenities in numerous languages, he lit and threw his arsenal…._

…_usually, a trick pulled the first time on Brother Timothy worked; never any time after. He saw the vitriol headed towards him. It was a simple matter to slap the container aside. Several more missiles followed. Fresh and repeated washes of flaming acid covered the oaken table, the floor, and the walls; some even landed on him but he ignored the pain. He had ceased singing his battle song. His fury was at a white hot level. The closer he got to Colluill, the more the quickening fire evinced itself. Soon, even his eyes had a blue tinged glow as quickening fire sparked and danced around him and cascaded to the floor. It looked like Colluill was down to his last container of acid. He threw it in a line drive straight at his head. Brother Timothy snatched the missile out of the air with his left hand and threw it back with the full force of his strength behind it. Colluill was aghast as he ducked; the vitriol smashed against the back wall of the room and started to consume the tapestries there. Little fires started on the two ornate chairs. _

"_Hello again, Baron Mont Fourier; did you think you would be rid of me that__ easily? I made a promise to you I intend to keep. Wrack and ruin on you for visiting the same upon me. I will answer your question you asked Colluill; he and I have known each other for almost five thousand years, but he will die today for his crimes against me as will you." Brother Timothy glared at not only Colluill but all present. "__Just like an Ap Hwywd, a coward of cowards. You are out of vitriol, Colluill. What will you do now?" __Needless to say, when the Baron saw the monk again, he had lost nearly all his composure. The man-at-arms backed away from Brother Timothy; he wanted no part of this insanity. Brother Timothy moved forward, but his demeanor became no less harsh or excoriating. "Your Baron trespassed upon something he should have left WELL enough alone! Baron Mont Fourier, suffer your house as what suffering you visited upon me!" Brother Timothy drew his sword to emphasize that fact and cleaved the air with it. The whistling sound it made was as that of a harbinger of doom; even the fires did not reflect off the sword, it was as if what he wielded absorbed the light. "__ARVACH! Daudi an Ap Hwywd!"__ With no further speech, the monk came at Colluill at a dead run, sword raised to wreak havoc….Colluill, his face dark with rage but also aghast with fear drew a slender sword nearly as black as what the monk carried…_

…_the man-at-arms was a skilled warrior for his time; he had survived numerous battles in his span of years. Nothing had prepared him for what havoc he now witnessed. The Baron's guest had drawn a slender sword that smoked as it cut the air, but what the monk was holding was near as massive in size as his great sword, but was blacker than night in color with the exception of some heretical looking runes on the hilt. The monks sword whistled as it cut through the air as with unholy speed, the two closed in battle, the clash of swords a cacophony of havoc. The monk's right arm showed massively corded muscle as he swung his harbinger of doom with ease, not only blocking with the weapon, but with his left arm. So far, all that had saved the red-haired guest was his taller height and longer reach, but there was a look of fear written all over the red haired ones face. It was plainly obvious that the monk was by far physically the stronger. The monks visage was grim…no. way beyond that…blue lightning crackled across each of their bodies and red sparks erupted when their swords clashed…..when his crossbowman made as if to load another quarrel, the man-at-arms bade him to not do so…..the two combatants fought as if they were the only ones in the room, one in a colorful dress and light armor, the other in a plain monks robe spinning like a dervish...as far as the Man-At-Arms was concerned, both combatants were from the dark reaches of hell…perversions of humanity that only caused fell destruction...the monk wielded his sword as if it were a stick and was so quick on his feet it was near inhuman, attacking and blocking with such a fluid motion and smashing anything that got in his way…_

"_Do something to stop them now!" The Baron demanded. _

_The man-at-arms responded as __a strike from Brother Timothy's sword cleaved off a chunk of oaken table after a blow missed. "What exactly should I or any of my men do, sire? Interfere in that? They both possess a fighting skill way beyond ours; I am surprised that monk did not kill with that fell weapon of destruction sooner. We are fortunate we are still alive!" It may not have been possible, but the destruction from the two fighting with their swords had drastically multiplied the damage to the Barony. Colluill's sword was soaked in acid; it scorched anything it touched as its residue even marred the floor. Brother Timothy's sword was near twice the weight of a great sword but not as massive in size. The blade was strong enough to cut chunks from the stout oaken table and reduce anything it hit to ruin. When Colluill ducked behind a statue, Brother Timothy pulverized it with one sword blow. The two combatants showed almost no sign of tiring as the fight spread onto the flaming table top, the blows and parries occurring so fast they may as well been a continuous song of chaos and doom…_

…_This is a relatively equal match, Brother Timothy thought. Colluill was an exceptional swordsman; that was all that had saved him up until this time. In the day when the average man was lucky to be 170 to 175 centimeters, Colluill stood near 190. That was a head taller then Brother Timothy and Colluill had the extra reach with his height. Several places in Brother Timothy's robe smoked where Colluill had landed a blow. His sword was tipped in some sort of acid as well as being far lighter than what Brother Timothy carried. He was wearing some sort of light mail over his outfit, but it afforded him no protection in this battle. Colluill had made some grave errors of misjudgment as well. He was faster with his smaller sword, but nowhere near as faster as he thought. His armor and his outfit were shredded as well from blows the monk had landed. Brother Timothy was shorter so he did not have the reach of arm, but his sword did. Brother Timothy also was a lot more powerfully built due to all the hard work he had done over the years. Colluill was smart enough not to risk directly blocking what Brother Timothy carried; his weapon would have been ruined. As fast as Colluill was with his sword, the monk was nearly as fast, blocking with sword or greave or even both. Colluill was also in shock when he realized the monks whole left arm was protected by his greave; his sword blows did nothing but ring against the iron and star-metal on it. Colluill got in a painful slash across Brother Timothy's right arm as he was bringing the sword into position to block; the combination of the blow and the weight of the sword spun it out of his grip onto the table. Sensing victory, Colluill let out a chortle as he lunged towards Brother Timothy, sword out thrust to deal a death blow. He laughed when Brother Timothy's left hand closed over the blade near the hilt. "__Grabbing a blade of a sword, you assuredly must be a stupid fool! Even if I have to cut you apart piece by piece to kill you, I will!" __Colluill bore down with all his weight trying to sever the monk's hand. The blade smoked where it contacted the iron; also the smell of burning skin revealed that the hand protection was not as full as the arm. When Colluill's left hand clawed for Brother Timothy's eyes, he screamed as his hand was crushed in a grip of iron from the monk's horrendously calloused right hand. At this close of a distance, Colluill's height was of little advantage. This was a contest of brute strength. Colluill's breath had a carnal stench to it that made Brother Timothy want to gag, but with increasing pressure, he stressed Colluill's blade with as much force and leverage that he could muster. He ignored the pain of his burning flesh and the stench of the metal and Colluill's foul breath. What seemed like an eternity later, he heard the sword metal overstress and irrevocably fracture. When he released his hold on Colluill's blade, the sword fell in three pieces to the ruined table. Colluill was left with perhaps 2 inches of blade and a hilt. Before Colluill could register this information, an armored fist smashed the breath from his lungs as Brother Timothy began to wreak ruin on him with his fists. Their close proximity once again cost Colluill any advantage. When he tried to kick free of his adversary, his kick was blocked and returned with such savage force he gasped. He sagged against his adversary feigning defeat and got low enough to hastily pick up an eating knife in his right hand. As fast as he could he brought it up and cut into the monks face as deep as he could go. Brother Timothy gasped as the blood ran down his face then yet again did what Colluill did not expect. Most humans, mortal or not will retreat from pain. Brother Timothy did not; he could not. He released his hold on Colluill's left hand and transferred it to his throat and began to squeeze despite the pain in his face. He abruptly thrust Colluill away from him as he forehanded him in the face with his armored hand. Just before impact, he let go of his hold he had on Colluill's throat. The effect was remarkable even beyond the facial bones shattering at initial contact. Colluill did nearly two airborne pirouettes while flying backwards and down. He landed on the top of his head on the oaken table, and then smacked face down on the floor with more sounds of crunching bone. He lay on the floor not ten feet from the group; they had seen the earlier spectacle. When one soldier approached the still form, the man-at-arms held him back. "We do not want any of this! Do NOT interfere; I fell believe that this is not yet done." As if to mimic his prediction, Colluill's still form spasmed once then blue lightning erupted upon him, healing him. It was only moments before he was fully healed… _

…_.Brother Timothy quickly retrieved his sword, but did not bother to sheath it. He knew Colluill was nearby. He yelled as loud as he could. "Colluill Ap Hwywd! Filthy, defiling coward, it is time to die as all of you and yours will do before I am through Destroying!"_

…_Colluill was frantic upon hearing that challenge. He raced towards the soldiers as if to gain some assistance, but all he got were stony looks of silence and anger, except from the man-at-arms. "It was you that caused this to befall us, so you could play some sort of JOKE! You BROUGHT this ravaging minion to this demesne!" He kicked at Colluill, but Colluill was running away in fear towards the far wall. Brother Timothy erupted out from the flames this time, sword in hand. Colluill was at the far wall and saw the Barony shield and swords that rested there. Hastily he took down one of the swords; a longsword of finest steel. An impatient, fear-driven kick knocked the shield from its mount. He laid down the sword only long enough to mount the shield on his left arm, and then retrieved the sword. Colluill felt some of his cocky demeanor return. He would face and kill that murderous bastard; then he would be the hero of his line…._

…_Brother Timothy brought his sword to rest position, his earlier exertions taxing him less and less. The baron pleaded with his man-at arms. _

"_He has my shield and sword! Do something, for god's sake!" _

_The man-at-arms looked coldly at the Baron. "You are also to blame for this malevolent perfidy thrust upon us. You and your guest brought this ruin on yourselves. You best hope that whoever wins does not come for you as well, because I and my men will do naught to interfere." The man-at-arms had no plans of challenging the monk at this point. The priest could do nothing else but pray even harder and clutch his rosary closer. The man-at-arms looked with interest upon the coming conflagration. Colluill was now armed with a longsword and shield while the monk had only what was on his left arm as a shield; the way he saw it, the monk was doomed, but he could be wrong. Brother Timothy wasted no time closing the distance between himself and Colluill. They faced each other in momentary silence, and then both screamed out a challenge…._

"_Arvach! Daudi an Ap Anon!"_

"_Arvach! Daudi An Ap Hwywd!"_

_As one, both closed the gap as their swords met with a resounding clang. They pulled apart only momentarily before joining once again with the accompanying clangor. Colluill tried a shield bash, but his maneuver was nullified by the monks' heavier weight along with the monk skipping away even as the maneuver was completed. Colluill next tried to use his height to his advantage, but the monk was by far the stronger and carried a much deadlier blade. As Brother Timothy skipped back, his sword came around in a full sideways sweep that Colluill was only barely able to block. While the monk's sword was unaffected, Colluill's now had a gouge mark in the blade. Now the monk increased the speed of his strikes and their force. A downward chop sank three inches into the top of the shield before being halted; before Colluill could take advantage of this fact, Brother Timothy leapt into the air and kicked the shield, using the counterforce to withdraw his weapon with a shriek of tortured metal. The next blow a now very fearful Colluill tried to land was met with the full force of the Monk's superior sword. The longsword shattered as the sword continued its deadly swing. The top third of the shield was chopped away like a piece of wood under an axe; it flew across the room and gonged against a wall. The tip of the sword had slashed open Colluill's chest. Only by reflex did Colluill raise what was left of the shield; it caught the downward swing the Monk had affected by shifting the swords weight. The sword cleaved almost all the way through the shield facing; what thickness that was not cut through simply buckled, shattering Colluill's left arm in several places. Even as these wounds were already healing, Brother Timothy leaped forward and broke Colluill's neck and crushed it to ruin with his left hand. He dropped his sword and without further ado, he dragged the corpse, even now trying to re-animate, until he had pulled it onto the oaken table. Using what swords and knives he could find, he pinned Colluill to the table like some obscene child's game, splaying the arms and legs out so that he could not use any to help the others. Colluill screamed at the agony as his neck wounds healed themselves. __"Worry not, Defiler. Soon Gwynach will join you and I will be rid of two of your foul ilk at once!" _

"_You will die, Destroyer! My family will hunt you down and kill you like your whore queen. Maybe they will eat you after wards as well!" __Colluill was laughing like a maniac until he realized he could not see Brother Timothy. "Where are you! Where in hell are you, you filthy destroying bastard! Where are—AGHKKK!" _

_Brother Timothy had borrowed the crossbowman's crossbow. The quarrel speared Colluill through the mouth and transpierced his head, burying itself into the oaken table. Brother Timothy took only a moment to rest from his exertions. He whirled upon the party of mortals eyeing Colluill's mangled body in shock. Quickly he went over to where the last battle had occurred and retrieved his sword. Brother Timothy then stopped in front of the Baron, who was aghast to the point of speechlessness. The soldiers moved aside, not wanting any of this insanity. _

"_You do not seem to be as ebullient now as you were before, Baron! Is it possible that something upset you?" Brother Timothy next whirled upon the soldiers. "Somewhere within this demesne, there is another like him in hair and eyes, but female. Wher__e is she?" He got no response. His fury, only slightly abated by the earlier battles conclusion, began to overflow yet again. He saw that the baron's wife held two girls close to her. With a deft motion, he plucked one from her grasp and lifted her up by the clothes she wore in his left hand. The girl screamed as Brother Timothy placed his blade at her throat. "I will ask again my question; if I receive no answer, I will chop off her head. I will continue doing so until I have an answer or you are all dead. WHERE is SHE!" The baron's wife screamed. "You are a foul, devil-tainted murdering bastard! What did we EVER do to you to deserve this sort of wrack and ruin that you have visited upon us. Let my daughter go! Have you not killed enough?" _

"_You and your kind exist; at times I think that is enough of a crime. Your husband transgressed at the behest of those you let stay here; it would have been like me cutting your baronial coat-of-Arms into your corpse so that he could see it! Consider this destruction as only part of what you pay. The woman, Gwynach, or your daughter's existence; what shall it be, pestilential, fool-ignorant mortal!" _

_It was one of the scullery women who saved the girls life. "She is in the birthing room towards the back. I would take you there if you so wish, monsieur." Brother Timothy cast the girl__ into her mother with no effort. _

"_Do so; if you are lying, you will die first, I promise." The scullery maid gulped as her face paled, but started to walk towards the remains of the banners that had adorned the back wall. As Brother Timothy followed her, he sheathed his sword. He kicked aside the piece of Baronial shield that was in his path with a foul curse…._

…_after Brother Timothy left, all present in the group, at least the adults, were talking at once. The man-at-arms silenced them with as little noise as possible. "Is your daughter ok, milady?" He spoke to the Baron's wife. _

_Her look was of purest contempt. "Yes, but NO thanks to you! Were you not tasked to protect your master the baron and his family! You most assuredly did fail this time!" _

_The man-at-arms let out a long sigh. "We are men accustomed to battle, milady, not this sort of carnage. We could protect against a normal sort of foe, but nothing about those two is normal. See for yourself…if you dare. We have already seen the other one return from the dead!" He pointed to the oaken table where Colluill was pinioned. It was plain to see that he was doing his best to break free of his grisly restraints; this was despite having a crossbow quarrel transpiercing his head. It was apparent that Colluill was very much alive. The Baroness screamed at the display. "It is the Baron's fault for taking the counsel of his guest. Even if what the monk said was false, he was eating a dead child's leg. We all saw that." All went silent as a fresh clamor of noise erupted towards the back of the building….._

…_.she led Brother Timothy down a hall that also reeked strongly of excrement and other foul odors. The scullery woman wailed at seeing the few bodies here but Brother Timothy paid them no mind. He was questing with his sense…..seeking the other that was here. As if it will do me any good, he thought. She is like Colluill; way too much power to hide from me, and vice versa. He would know when he found her….._

…_the wailing of a baby caught his ear as they approached a doorway set into the wall. He clapped his armored hand over the woman's mouth to prevent her from alerting anyone. A much younger woman rounded the corner with a bundle in her arms. She stopped short when Brother Timothy's right hand fastened around her throat. _

"_Who are you and what are you doing here? Answer me or DIE!" "The girl was fearful, but managed to stammer out, "I was attending the birth of a guest the baron has in his Barony. See? It is a baby girl!" _

_Brother Timothy let go of his hold on her throat as she pulled back the blanket to reveal a somewhat upset baby. He had red hair and the bluest eyes Brother Timothy had seen. He released his hold on the other woman as well but grabbed her by her neck. "Where is the Baron's female guest? I told you what would happen if you lied to me!" _

"_Monsieur, I swear upon all that is holy, she is in that room behind the doors! Please, Monsieur, you are hurting me! I swear I told you the truth!" Brother Timothy was in shock. We can NOT have children! That child could not be hers! He began to quest yet again, but before he could concentrate hard enough, blue quickening fire crackled up his arm. The woman HAD been telling the truth! He now remembered so long ago in a different place….how could this possibly be? He looked at the two women staring in fear at the lightning display. "If you both wish to live, you had best go back to the others. This is for me and me alone to deal with as I need." They thankfully ran off as Brother Timothy listened at the door. Sure enough, he heard a woman's voice. _

"_Colluill, is that you? This time it was only a mortal one, but maybe we will be lucky the next time. What was all that commotion out there a bit earlier?" _

_The door was locked. Brother Timothy smashed open the door with a kick and confronted she who he sought. Gwynach Ap Hwywd was as ethereally beautiful as any man could imagine; her red hair hung below her waist and her green eyes were s mesmerizing as could be. She was standing up from the bed naked facing the door in shock. The physical wreckage of childbirth was fast healing; soon, she would be whole again. Her hair danced with the crackle of quickening fire. _

"_Colluill waits for you, in the eating hall, Gwynach; I have been waiting for both of you for a long, long time."_

"_Who in hell are you? And where is my Colluill? If he is harmed, you will rue your actions. How dare you—" Gwynach paled when she realized that this man spoke in the olden tongue._

"_I would have expected for you to have a better memory, Gwynach. Colluill knew who I was. Only eight of you escaped justice that day. Soon it will be only six." __Brother Timothy had to duck and twist to the side as a brazier flew over him and smashed into the door, spraying hot coals all over the immediate area. _

"_You will die first, DESTROYER!"__ Brother Timothy grunted in pain as a rock hit him in the chest. He recovered fast enough to duck one aimed at his head. Gwynach was livid, her lips were turned back in a grimace, showing her pointed teeth. Her green eyes were wide with rage. He closed the distance between them, a look of grim resolve on his face. _

"_It was true, what those two long ago said…you can be impregnated and give birth. Was that how you gained so many immortals in your clan?" _

_Brother Timothy's tone was icy as he reached for Gwynach. She was built like Colluill; she equaled him in height. She had a lithe strength about her as well, but it was no match for Brother Timothy's rage or his much more powerful build. She sank an eating knife to the hilt into his right shoulder. He ignored the rush of pain as his left hand grabbed a copious amount of red hair. Gwynach smelled like rank carrion to his senses. Her left hand clawed for his eyes, but he had on the spur of the moment decided what to do. He quickly jerked her around in a spin; he had enough of her hair so she could not get free. Once he knocked her off balance and she was spinning through the air, he let centrifugal force and his strength do the rest. Gwynach sailed through the air over the bed, cart wheeling sideways until her motion was stopped by the far wall. She collided with a satisfying smack. Brother Timothy yanked out the eating implement; the wound and the pain left almost immediately. He held the eating knife loosely in his right hand as he approached Gwynach. She did not have as much power as Colluill, but she had enough to quickly heal herself. With a screech of near inhuman fury, she launched herself at the monk, hands extended and mouth open wide to wreak ruin. He threw the eating knife with full force, breaking the speed of her charge__, but she still attacked with the knife inside her. He grabbed her by the neck with his right hand, but she twisted from his grasp and sank her teeth into his right arm near the elbow. Brother Timothy hissed at the pain. She had bitten deep; he could feel her teeth grind against the bones of his arm. She had latched onto his arm with a death grip as her teeth worked to rip out a piece of his flesh. Try as he might, there was no dislodging her. And attempt to pull her free by main brute force did no good either; he had no leverage of consequence. The pain in his right arm was increasing exponentially with every second. In desperation, his armored left hand started systematically causing ruination to Gwynach's body. He pulled her right shoulder out of its socket and broke her back with massive punches. He saw some broken glass on the floor and dragged Gwynach over to where it was. Suddenly spinning, he landed on the glass with Gwynach under him. He heard bones break as her grip on his arm loosened. Before she could heal, Brother Timothy had stood up and pulled her back once again using her hair. Once her teeth were gone from his right arm, the wound healed rapidly. He snapped her neck using the full force of his right arm. As her body went limp, he cast it on the floor. Even now, she was healing from the injuries he had wreaked upon her; he would not be able to carry her out there without restraining her first. He removed eating knife and then rammed it into her brain from under her chin. He pulled a sheet off of the bed and wrapped her from hips to feet in it and tied it off. A scarf he found was perfect for keeping the knife in place. Only her left arm flailed about. He trapped and dislocated that shoulder as well. Resolute in purpose, he dragged the now immobile body by its hair, The sheet almost immediately untied and fell away; even with the knife in her head; Gwynach was attempting to heal herself. To stop the legs from thrashing and kicking, Brother Timothy crushed Gwynach's spine. It worked perfectly. He emerged once again into the main hall dragging Gwynach by her hair. With no further ado, she joined Colluill on the table. Even the soldiers paled when they saw what ruin had been done to her. Brother Timothy removed the scarf so that Gwynach was completely nude. "Good, both of the Barony's guests are here in good order." He heard a pop as Gwynach relocated her right should and removed the knife from her throat. Brother Timothy grabbed up a sword on the table and transpierced Gwynach through her left eye, her skull and Colluill's throat into the table. Gwynach let out an unbelievable scream. He finally got tired of her right arm flailing around seeking the sword, so he drew his sword and lopped off her arm. After some thought, he also severed her legs and cast the body parts away. He then severed a few of Colluill's limbs as well, laughing as it was done. He ignored the spray of gore that doused him. He faced the group of people before he spoke again, soaked in gore as the two transpierced to the table screamed and screamed. "You see, Baron, this is how I deal with my enemies. When I cut off their heads, the result of that action will destroy this edifice. Those of you that wish to live, I advise leaving now." The Baron was mentally overloaded. A vacuous expression went with the drool from his lips. He did not respond when spoken to; his mind had tipped over from what he had seen. The man-at-arms tried to help the Baroness, but she shrieked at him. He had to wrest her two daughters from her. He and the other soldiers herded the others out of the eating hall. Soon, Brother Timothy was alone with only the Baron and Baroness present. Colluill and Gwynach lay impaled on the table. Perhaps he should have killed them all, but something was wrong inside Brother Timothy. At this moment, he felt no better inside then he had before. The fury of combat had quelled that feeling that he was worse than these others here, but now it had returned. He put that aside for a moment. His sword arced down; Colluill's and Gwynach's heads rolled free of their bodies. He took satisfaction at the last expressions on both of their faces. Their necks began to glow as bright as daylight as all their power seeped out of their bodies. A basso rumbling began in the building structure as the first jolts of energy assailed him. Dust wafted down from the roof, mixing with the flames and smoke. Soon there was only the energy and the pain, destruction and glory, finish and an end; it felt like it would last forever…._

…_he became aware as he lay on a pile of masonry. Groggy and disoriented at first, he quickly took stock of where he was. Most of the manor was a ruin; the Baron and Baroness were dead, crushed when a wall collapsed. He slowly picked his way out of the wreckage…dawn was paling the sky.._

…_later that evening, the man-at-arms was at an alehouse. His belly was full so that he could mull over the entirety of what had happened. His third cup of ale was only half drained as he was lost in thought. Three of the other soldiers that had left the manor were seated around him, but they were not drinking either. They all seemed to be silent in thought. The man-at-arms' reverie was broken when he was tapped on the shoulder. He whirled around, ready to draw his sword when a voice spoke. It was the priest that also had survived the havoc from the Barony. "I hied to here as fast as I was able, monsieur. I apologize for any delays, though I find your request for what service needing to be rendered to be odd." "Well, you took long enough, Father, but you are here. Be seated if you will." The man-at-arms got the other three soldiers' attention. "Are you all in agreement on what we will now do?" Three nods of assent followed. The man-at-arms turned to the scribe. "You are adequate with your letters, good man? That is what I need of at this time." "The priest cleared his throat. "Normally, for services of this sort, it would be most obliging and propitious to donate some charity to benefit the church." The man-at-arms placed a few dented copper pieces on the table; the money quickly disappeared into the priests robe. "Very well, monsieur, what is it that you need scribed to parchment?" The man-at-arms' stare was at once both penetrating and far away. "You know what it is we want written down, and don't think you can run, either! We just paid you good coin for your services!" "The priests somewhat officious manner disappeared like the wind. He was once again very pale as his hands shook. The priest mouthed a silent prayer to his god. After a moment, he had regained some of his composure; enough to at least steady his hand that held the quill. "Why must you put to parchment the unholy doings in that Barony? It is not meet, not meet at all!" The man-at-arms spoke almost silently. "Is it then also meet that havoc of that sort should bring yet another Barony to ruin? I do this so maybe no one else will have to suffer violence of that sort in our midst; so that no one must ever be witness to the sort of havoc which we witnessed. You saw what we did, so start writing! Maybe if enough know of that sort, their kind will stay away from us….FAR, far away…_

…_Brother Timothy had traveled as fast as he could from the destruction he had caused, but it was not fast enough. A screaming mob, incensed after an account of what had happened at the Barony Mont Fourier, was out for blood. Several innocents were burned at the stake that day, but Brother Timothy was not one of them….._

**Rheims, 1193 A.D.**

___...The cathedral was awe-inspiring even if not fully constructed; a human monument to the glory of God, Brother Timothy thought. He was where he said he would be in this holy edifice, as far away from mortal eyes as could be attained without drawing undue suspicion. Thoughts of Marie were still fresh in his head as if it were still…no, that was over and done with, but your legacy lives on though, milady. Though it went against all of his millennia-old instincts; everything he had learned, he was attempting the unthinkable: peace with …THEM! It would actually be more of a truce than a peace. He had wanted to talk to his allies regarding the matter, but he was not able to find any of them despite doing his utmost the last few years to do so. The last few years had not been easy, either. The number of stake-burnings of his person had increased since his time at the Barony as well as the number of crossbow bolts. It was time to see the writing on the wall: Pax Immortalus was at an end. If he or others wished to survive, they would have to hide their peculiarity from the mortals. There was another reason he was as far away as he could be from other people, too. There was no telling who would arrive here to meet with him; they might send their acolytes, but one of THEM might also arrive. If so, he would have no control over the quickening power; if he or they became enraged around each other, the lighting would evince itself; then there would be even more hell to pay. He had to laugh at some of the amusing moments of the recent past, though. He had run into Dhurgal and Dougal at a battle in England they called the Battle of the Standards. It would have stayed a typical mortal killing field had not some of their acolytes went after a monk who was observing the carnage. He was forced to defend himself not only against the acolytes who had died, but then Dhurgal came after him. Dhurgal would have lost his head that day had not some grim faced longbow men filled the general area with arrows aimed at both of them. He at least had escaped unscathed. Then Taeg had attacked him not so long after; he had with him Clydweth as well. Once he tossed the bog-beast off a cliff, she had also fled. He had ruined her armor in that encounter. Other moments were not as amusing. Two years after he had killed Colluill and Gwynach, Dougal and an immortal horde had attacked him with vengeance on their minds. The havoc spilled into a small village in the north; by the time it was finished, over seventy mortals and immortals lay dead, most all by his hand; only he and Dougal still stood amongst the living and uninjured. All else had been rendered into bloody charnel. Once again, a furious horde of mortals interrupted the finish of the matter. His thoughts were interrupted by his sensing something. A glance towards the cathedral entrance showed several figures entering, and not all were followers, either. He strained to calm himself as best he could so as not too much quickening fire emerged. Brother Timothy sighed….now we shall see if what you said was true, Marie…._

_ …..they had seated themselves around him so as to box him in; in their mind, they were preventing him from escaping. He laughed; if this deal went sour, more carnage would result. He could lose his head, but their followers were no match for his skill. Even in numbers, he had shown them what the end result would be. There was also another clad in monk's robes sitting a distance away from the group, but even now, they were silent. _

_So, which one of the illustrious clan of Ap Hwywd is here today? Is that you, Sardicus? __Brother Timothy did not have to wait long for an answer. _

_You would only wish that, Destroyer! This is Dougal. For what reason did you decide to meet with me here today? Is it to offer us your head? _

_Brother Timothy sighed. __Not in this lifetime, defiler. Rather than ask you whose child you ate today, I will get to the point. Our kind have largely been given free rein to cause what havoc we wished for any reason; even you would have to agree that time has ended. I am proposing a truce between your clan and mine; no more open battle between us."_

_Dhurgal laughed. __"As if I would ever treat with a murdering bastard like you; if I dared ever do so, I would be in danger! You killed Colluill and Gwynach and nearly all in our clan house; that shall never be forgiven or forgotten!"_

_Brother Timothy kept as calm as he could in this situation. __"You raped and beheaded my queen and defiled The Place of Kings with your perversion; that will never be forgiven or forgotten. Nor will the penalty decreed ever dissipate. You would think that somehow the matter would have been settled one way or another in the last 4500 years, but it has not, has it? Colluill made the mistake of letting his arrogance advertise his presence. He must have been proud of what his skulking coward clansmen did while he ran like a scared child from your clan house." __He smirked as he felt Dougal become agitated. _

"_I will never agree to any truce or equivalent with you, Ardis! I advise that you best watch your head upon leaving this place…or maybe while in it?" __Dougal gestured at two of his companions. One drew a wickedly sharpened short-axe while the other drew a steel cylinder. Brother Timothy moved his left hand to block the pipe-wielder's blow, and then twisted the pipe from their hand. He whipped it around and clubbed the axe wielder in the head; they fell to the floor unconscious. He kept a hold on the pipe while he extracted some parchment from his robes and cast it at Dougal. _

"_I need to clarify myself, I suppose. My proposal does not have a 'no' attached to it. If you fail to acquiesce to the truce and ALL to which it pertains, a watcher will have what you now possess. As a matter of fact, one Watcher does have this information; at this time, they __cannot use it. That will not last forever, though. They will eventually decode it given enough time. Then all I do is sit back and watch every immortal come for you with sword in hand. I will win by attrition, I believe." __Brother Timothy laughed; he knew that right now Dougal would kill him in a flat fell second if he dared. He could feel the rage emanating from Dougal as he read the parchment._

"_This is fell EXTORTION! You would not dare reveal this to anyone!" "Try me, defiling miscreant; just try me. If you do not acquiesce….you and yours will die. It will not be at my hand, but you still will be dead. As it goes, there will be some rules to combat amongst ourselves from now on. The first rule will be no battle on holy ground…ANY holy ground of ANY faith. The second rule will be that no mortals are to witness any battle. The third rule will be no external interference once a battle is joined. This will ensure EVERYONE'S survival; Pyrrhic victory is in no one's best interest." __Brother Timothy smiled as Dougal made a motion that made his acolytes restive once again._

"_It seems that you have thought about this for some time; uncle always said it was not only your sword hand that was to be feared. You have not addressed two problems with this scenario, though. What of the Watchers that constantly hound us? And how will you stop them from eventually exposing us?"_

"_I have considered both of those matters as well, and I have a solution to cover both instances. We exterminate any watcher that hounds us. If you abide by the truce, you can stay in one area; you can then eradicate any Watcher filth that you find. None of them hound me now. As for the second matter, here is even a better solution." __Brother Timothy gestured at the figure sitting near them. The figure came over and sat down, albeit hesitantly. The others present reached for various implements of carnage, but Brother Timothy raised his hand. __"You are the ones with the deceptive tricks. This is not a trick. Pull down your hood and show your face." This is Methos. He is old enough to not be called a youngling, but nowhere near our age, Dougal. He will now be the oldest immortal, sought by younglings and Watchers alike. Once again, if you abide by our truce, this will work." _

"_How do we know this is not a trick of yours, Ardis?" _

"_I spared this one's life some time ago; he owes me. This will be how he will pay. In essence, you have no real choice, Ap Hwywd. Agree to the truce, or you will be exterminated." _

_Methos spoke. "What in hell did I ever do so that I have to be caught in the middle of this insanity?" _

"_You transgressed upon me, fool. This is the payment that you receive. What is it going to be, Dougal? Do you want a chance to maybe take up where we left off, or extinction of your whole defiling line?" _

_Dougal was livid with rage. __"You know that this will be yet another act against us for which you will pay dearly, you BASTARD!" __Dougal let out a sigh of defeat; the information on the parchment was as damning as any that could be written. "__I will have to meet with the others I can find. That cannot be done immediately." _

"_You have one week to be back here with your answer. If you agree, I will show you how to get the information from the Watcher who has it. If not, then you will rue that day as one of your gravest errors. I strongly advise that a cessation of hostilities should occur for that time. That includes Methos as well as me"….._

…_a week later, they met in the same place; Dougal had returned alone again with his acolytes.__ "We have an agreement, DESTROYER! Do not ever think we will forget this…EVER! How do we get the information away from the Watcher? And where is Methos?" _

"_Methos is right here. You heard what he said I hope?" __Methos nodded. __"I am glad you have been attentive to this matter. This agreement contrives a truce against any further direct hostilities between our clans. If you EVER reveal this information to anyone, Methos, I will kill you if they do not do so first. As of now, we no longer exist, while you do. To make it even more interesting, Dougal, let the youngling pests know that there is a prize for the last one left with their head upon their shoulders instead of on the ground. It is up to you now, Methos, to be a good little immortal irritant and spread these rules around as best as you can. There is one last thing to be addressed." __Brother Timothy turned to glower at Dougal directly, so intensely that Dougal backed away a step. __"Through the years, you have done nothing but provoke me to destructive action to either keep the balance or keep my head or in the original case, see that justice was done. For the moment now, it ends. The NEXT time you provoke me in any way, by all the gods we know, it WILL be the last time, no matter how much destruction I cause….remember this Dougal Ap Hwywd…..remember it well…_


	24. Chapter 23

**Paris, Present Day**

Had Brother Timothy been observant upon entering the graveyard, he would have seen another taxi pull up near the edifice and a figure in a trench coat step from the vehicle. The figure paid the driver and quickly got his bearings. They saw the monk in the graveyard, so they headed towards the entrance.

Duncan entered the small church and looked around. _Nothing to see in here,_ he thought. He saw the entry to the graveyard and quickly entered that area. It took some time to find who he had followed; the monk's robe was a dark brown; if the monk did not move, it would make for good camouflage. He saw the monk kneeling by a grave in a far corner of the graveyard and slowly approached them. _Why in hell did I follow him here in the first place? How can I get any answers if I do not know what questions to ask? _Duncan did his best to compose his thoughts as he stopped near the kneeling monk. His composure was shaken and his tone of voice changed as he saw a tendril of quickening power snake up the monk's left arm before disappearing.

"Who are you?" Duncan backed away a few steps before he continued. "If you are one of us, why was I not able to sense you?" The monk's silence only made Duncan more furious. "I asked you a god damned question! ANSWER ME!" Duncan suddenly was able to sense the monk; the feeling increased in intensity until it made him stagger slightly. A sick feeling was in the pit of his stomach. Finally, like a light switch, the feeling left. Had he not sensed what he had a moment before, he could be faced with simply another mortal with a bad set of manners. Duncan quickly regained his composure, but he was livid now. The only thing that kept him from drawing his katana was the fact that he was on holy ground.

The monk chuckled dryly without looking at Duncan. "So that was why I evinced quickening fire when I was near you last; a seasoned youngling. I suppose there are some sorts of youngling pests like that. We usually can hide ourselves from your sort if we wish."

Duncan's gaze became even more livid. "Quickening energy only evinces itself when you take a head, NOT upon meeting another one of our kind!"

The monk's tone became icier. "Our kind? You and I assuredly may have one trait in common, but that is where it ENDS! You can hold only so much power until you are filled. Once that limit is reached, most quickenings do not affect you anymore and you can use the power to hide very well indeed; that is, unless one with significant power approaches."

"I am over 400 years old and I am NOT a youngling, you arrogant BASTARD"

The monk fluidly rose to his feet while staying hooded. What expression could be seen from under his hood was as stone. "I have worn these robes for over 1400 years, and I was old even then! You are a petulant, arrogant youngling to me. You also decided to interfere in a matter that does not concern you. Your thieving friend also did as much; because of the both of you, that Ap Hwywd was out of my grasp, but she is dead now along with the original murdering thief." The monk continued. "Who I am is of no consequence to you as well. Does it make a difference, anyways? We are always some person or another as time goes floating by. I had hoped to recover what was stolen from me that night I found the thief. Guess what happens though? Your friend, being the interfering thief immortal she is, takes the items and tries to run, but she does not get far"

The monk actually laughed loudly after the comment. Duncan had had enough. He quickly stalked over and pulled back the monks hood. His impertinence earned him an armored fist to the chest. Duncan felt ribs crack as he was nearly cast back off his feet, but he recovered before he fell down. He gasped at the pain but felt the injury healing as he saw the monk unhooded. _At least I now know he is not Darius, but what in hell did he hit me with? _ Duncan saw a rather banal visage, clean shaven with close cropped brown hair. The monk's eyes as well as the rest of their visage burned with a fury Duncan had not often seen in mortal or immortal. As he had also seen earlier, a hilt of what had to be a sizeable sword jutted over the monk's right shoulder. The monk adjusted the robes to hide the hilt, and then his left hand snapped up, pointing at Duncan. "Were we not on holy ground, which I still respect, you would be a dead youngling PEST. "_His left hand is covered in some sort of armor! _The armor plating was so black that Duncan had a hard time making out how it was fastened together. Once he saw the fastenings, though, he had a grudging respect in his mind; _whoever forged that was a master at their craft_, he thought. That still did little to cool Duncan's temper, though. The monk spoke again. "You have some items that were stolen from me, or she does. I believe we both know what they are. I want them back, and I want them back NOW!"

That was the wrong way to convince Duncan MacLeod to do anything. His expression became cold as he replied. "Oh, you are threatening me now, are you? I am supposed to be afraid of the big, bad monk?" Duncan snorted in derision. "Your fancy armor will not save you. I have faced worse than what you represent. You also might want to stay out of my dreams, not-Darius." Duncan's very gaze spoke challenge; that he would not be pushed by anyone to do anything unless he saw a reason to do it.

"Not-Darius, that's pretty funny. I am not going to play games with you, youngling; no, far from it. Had I been able to recover the stolen items sooner, what is now happening could have easily been avoided, and things possibly would have settled back to where they were. Your friend changed all that a few nights ago when she cut off the head of Gwyneth's older relation, Bronwyn. I am curious, did she survive the quickening?"

"She may have or may not have; what business is it of yours?" The monk once again laughed loudly. "You have NO idea what she stepped into, do you. Maybe I should put it into a perspective you can understand. Are you familiar with the rules of immortal combat? To even think that an Ap Hwywd's taste for human flesh would have been their undoing. That in itself is humorous!"

Duncan spoke again but through gritted teeth. "TEN people were killed there that night, all of them immortal! Of COURSE I am familiar with the Rules of combat between us; they are a tradition! Are you the cause of all this carnage!"

The monk glared back at Duncan. "The rules are NOT a tradition, fool! They were created because the levels of atrocities were getting out of hand! They would provoke or attack, I and others were forced to defend. A lot of people died. First the mortals were in awe, then fear, then hatred and anger. I am sure you know of at least that?" Duncan nodded. "A truce of sorts was reached by which they and I would no longer directly confront each other. It was a long time ago. Since that time, no more battles on holy ground, no more battle in sight of mortals, and no more interference. There is your _tradition!" _

Duncan was not saying a word while he digested the information. _And suddenly, there was no more pointless carnage. All of the battles and conflicts had a logical reason to occur. Could this really be the reason? _"If that is true, what is happening now?"

"When the items were stolen from me, the truce was broken. Had I been able to get the items back without bloodshed, I may have been able to reassert the matter. Your friend killed one of them AFTER the items were stolen. The rules and the peace that has existed for over 800 years have been irrevocably sundered; at least, as long as any of them remain. They and their minions are the ones causing the havoc now being wreaked. The ones left alive will be after you and any around them not on their side; they will also be after me. The destruction that followed my wake never was to provoke, it was only to defend or even the disparity they had caused. Perhaps they thought that they were in a position to challenge; no matter, though. At least one good thing will arise from this. "The Monk laughed, a sound of ice crackling in the winter.

"You do NOT seem appalled at what is happening. People are dying left and right, as well as battles in broad daylight with interference! Are you absolutely MAD? What good can come of this!" The monk's gaze focused on the gravestone for a moment. "She sought peace; she said it was the only answer to the crescendos of violence in her time. She thought she had gained it as well. She was raped and butchered by those with whom she sought to make peace. She was right in the fact that havoc does beget more havoc. What she did not realize was that havoc is necessary for the pursuit of peace, or the peace is meaningless. I think maybe we all seek peace; it is good that you may have found your peace in your short time on this earth. Would you still seek peace with enemies of yours about?" Duncan's silence gave the monk a sort of answer. "There is still havoc to be laid down from my hand. They have provoked me for the last time; THEY sundered the peace we had forged! It is now open war between me and my enemies, and one way or another, it WILL be finished! Your friend's interference makes it even more so that way! It is WAR between my clan and theirs, until the end of the matter! Your friend will also rue the day she interfered; inevitably, my onus will now be upon her as well….to finish what was started so long ago it at times seems to me to be only a dream. I do hope your sword arm is well?"

Duncan glowered at the monk. "This is far from over; you and I have serious differences to be resolved…one way or another!" The monk snapped his hood up to cover his face. "If or when you cross me, you do so at your own peril, youngling! Perhaps you might have more sense than your friend! I want what was stolen from me back; one way or another, I will have the items!" At that riposte, the monk quickly stalked off, mumbling under his breath.

Duncan stared for the longest time at the grave by which the monk kneeled. _He and others created the rules? That is a LIE! _ But over 400 years of existence kicked into the equation, along with the wisdom. _He says the rules were created so that there would be some peace. How is that hard to accept? That one has no peace on his visage at all! He intends to kill to achieve his goal regardless of cost! He acted as if he welcomed it! _Duncan shook his head as if to clear it; he then refocused on the issues at hand. Amanda had stuck her foot into something this time that was not just bad, it was BAD. As much as he wanted to believe that the rules governing combat were a tradition, what if the monk was being truthful? If the rules were sundered by ANY means, the end result would be….damn near all of the havoc seen so far. The items that Amanda had in her possession: equally as BAD. What if the monk had been lying? If so, that was the most convincing act he had seen in a while. Who in HELL was that monk? Duncan surmised that a name would have done no good anyways. Though the monk had stated what was happening, he left Duncan with more questions than answers. The Welsh had not used clan designations for…..centuries? but the monk had called his enemies by a clan name. Also, if what he said was true, Amanda might be in grave danger as it stood. He quickly left the graveyard; he needed to make sure Amanda and Gwyneth were okay, but he HAD to find Dawson, wherever the hell he was.

**Rome, Italy**

Even in the Pope's compound, things were not quiet. It was only in the afternoon that one specific but banal person was able to sit behind his desk with a sigh of relief. Shortly afterwards, five equally nondescript people were seated across from him. The single one spoke. "I am aware that some methods I use to gain information do not meet with your approval, but it has worked out well." As one unit, the 6 people each took out a laptop computer and powered it on. "The file will be in your 'My Documents' folder." The single male waited to gauge reactions.

Brother Brutus finished well before the other four besides him. "Has this been checked against our DB for accuracy? This could well be a hoax!"

"The solitary man answered. "I have good call to trust this source; he said himself that it was a Papal cross and a Letter of Excommunication. He actually handled the items."

Brother Svengaard was next to look up from his reading. "I call it a fell sign of heresy, that they should keep something like that from the only true church-"

"Careful, Svengaard, you are starting to sound like other Brothers who were sent away. The Church has no more room for zealotry anymore; we let Islam take up that responsibility long ago."

Brother Sebastian chuckled as Brother Svengaard gave him a frosty stare. Once all 5 were done reading, they all looked at the solitary figure behind the desk. It was odd in its own way if only for the reason that all six men were dressed the same in outer vestments; exactly the same. At a signal, the five seated in a group reached down the front of their shirts and extracted a gold medallion that was hanging around their neck. All present in the room looked at each other's medallion. Just as quickly, they placed them back where they were. The fatherly expressions of these five were offset with intensity of their stares. At one time people like this were only occasionally needed to quash some story of Heresy, or deal with it. The splintering of the faith in the 1500's led to the Church, the one true faith, to get more agents that would protect Rome from heretics of any faith or color. One of their own came close to killing Elizabeth I and paid with their life. Even though this was modern times, the church had many enemies still. These six men were not just any Catholic penitent; they all were Defensor Fidei, sworn by oath to uphold and protect the teachings of the one true faith using any means at their disposal. Many took the term 'Defensor Fidei' to mean the title conferred upon the rulers of England; the confusion served well to keep the ones seated well below the publicity radar.

"Are there any questions involving what you have read? Very well, digitally shred this document."

"Is this for real?" This Defensor looked somewhat like a 50's-era teenager, but their eyes were like glittery points that could skewer someone on debate.

"Yes it is, Brother Damien. We want the cross and the piece of parchment back in our hands. I have also been advised to inform you that you may use whatever force is needed. Absolution for your sins will be granted; the next time you show up here, it will be with the two items mentioned or a good reason otherwise. Good day, gentlemen. _Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison." _As one, the five others replied in the same manner_._ The five left to perform their services for their almighty God.

**New York**

Finding Dawson would possibly be more of a challenge than Duncan ever would imagine; at the moment, Dawson would not have been able to find out where he was. Their plane had made it to NYC with no problems. Once they had debarked, Dawson, Paddy and several others commandeered several Hummers and quickly departed the airport. In a short time, they were out on the fringes of the city in an area so generic he had no idea where they were. It was almost three hours when the little convoy finally stopped. From the moment they had stopped until the moment they entered what appeared to be a banal looking house, Dawson was screened and shielded by a handful of grim-faced guards. Everyone in the area was armed to the teeth, from heavy automatic weapons to axes. Only when they were inside did the guards relax, and then again only slightly. The inside of the house was not banal. Every room had self-sealing doors and blast protection. As they went towards the middle of the house, Dawson and a few others were given bio-suits to wear.

"Sorry for the inconvenience, gentlemen, but look at what he already tried to do to us."

They finally went into what may have once been a study area, but it was one no more. This room was vacant except for a somewhat battered, nondescript box on the floor in the center and two people in bomb gear. As they entered, one of the bomb-gear suited men walked up to the group.

"We checked it over, sir. We detected no explosives inherent on or around the packaging. That is not to say that there is no explosive device in the box, but we are pretty sure. Do NOT attempt to open the box until we leave. These suits are not impermeable to chemical agents!"

As soon as they left, Dawson, Paddy and three others stood clustered around the box. The box had only suffered the typical predations of the mail service, so it was not too battered. Paddy used a sharp knife to cut through the tape and open the box. Inside the box was what might have been suitable for a garbage disposal; coffee grounds interspersed with rotting apple cores and a moldering onion. Had not the men been wearing the suits they were, the stench would probably have been overpowering. These suits were designed to filter any and all air contaminants, so all they smelled was the filtrated oxygen tainted with the chemical smell of the filtering agents.

"What the hell is this? I would have thought he would have sent something other than his garbage!" In disgust, Paddy kicked the box, spilling its refuse contents on the floor.

Dawson was the first one to see an oddity about the box, though; considering the boxes dimensions, the siding was too thick for it to just be the box. He reached down and up righted the box on the floor as Paddy spoke.

"Yer going to touch that malodorous thing? He only sent us a load of garbage!"

"Paddy, we are in bio-suits, nothing can harm us in these, especially poison. I had to handle worse in Viet Nam anyways." The gloves reduced his dexterity, but he finally managed to remove the false siding of the box. He removed the 3 CDs he found. The other man placed them into a case.

"We need to see what is on these things, Dawson. Why did he pack the garbage into the box, though?"

Dawson chuckled. "You did not think there was anything in the box, either. That was a pretty good trick; as pungent as that garbage is, I bet it would mask most anything, not to mention keep most people from searching the box." The men left the room; within a short period of time, they had divested themselves of their gear and were sitting in front of Dawson's laptop PC. He inserted the first CD and it called up a password prompt. Dawson retrieved the proper password form a digital archive and it as accepted. Even though that had gotten them into the file contents of the CD, the entries looked as if they were written in machine code. "Damn!" Dawson exclaimed. The other two CDs were no different; beyond the global password was even more encrypting using an as yet unknown type of algorithm. "My laptop does not have the power to break this code; I will need to go to NYC to get some help."

Paddy's expression grew glittery. "That place is under yellow alert, Jim. That may not be the wisest of decisions. What if there is another attack?"

"If we want to find out what in HELL is on these CDs, we have no choice. I also want to maybe find out why Laskey tried to kill us back there!"

Paddy sighed. "I will make arrangements. You are still not to contact anyone though, and you will be escorted at all times. Have we reached an understanding?"

Dawson shrugged. "It looks like I have no choice in the matter; I still am telling you, if Duncan wants to find me, he will. You or any of your group will not stop him."

"We will cross that bridge when or if we come to it, Dawson." Paddy dialed a number on his secure cell phone.

Duncan took a cab back to where he lived; all the while he mulled over what information he had. He put the information aside as he approached his dwelling. All seemed quiet, but he was wary as he approached the door. He felt the quiet buzzing that probably was Gwyneth, but he also felt another sensation as well; it was as if it came out of the blue. It intensified until he felt like he needed to gasp for air; the world started to spin. Then, as with the monk, it was suddenly gone. _Did he follow me here?_ Duncan was taking no chances; he did not dare draw his sword. There were too many people in the area. Fortunately, thanks to another late immortal, Duncan could defend himself with his hands as needed. His left hand slowly tensed the doorknob while his right was balled into a fist, ready to strike with what _chi_ he could muster. He switched on the foyer light as he entered, to find Amanda in an _en garde_ position, her sword poised over her head ready to strike. Amanda relaxed when she saw it was Duncan.

"I am glad it is you here; there had to be six or seven times today someone immortal showed up at the door. It was odd, though; as I did my damnedest to find out who they were, they all ran away. You didn't, so I was ready." Amanda lowered her sword and let out a sigh. "What is happening to me, Duncan?" Amanda went into the living room then to the kitchen.

Duncan slowly sat down on a chair and set his sword by his side. "You said some things before I left I did not understand. Who is that monk? Do you know who he is?" Amanda finished a glass of milk then looked at Duncan. "He is someone she did NOT want to meet; I mean that bitch I killed did not want to meet him. He is the Destroyer."

Duncan's expression did not change. "I was talking to him today in a graveyard south of here. He said something about the rule regarding combat being sundered; that it was a truce. Did she know anything about that?"

Amanda's eyes went wide with shock as she stared intently at Duncan. "Duncan, stay away from him! He will kill you if you get in his way!"

Duncan began to be perturbed. "I want to know EVERYTHING you know about him and the others he hunts! You have involved me in numerous situations in the past that many times have wound up being combat I would preferred to avoid, but this time, it has gone WAY beyond that! He knows who you are, he thinks you may have survived the quickening, and he wants these things back. WHY DOES HE WANT THEM BACK! Who in HELL is he?"

Amanda was in shock; Duncan had lectured her before, but he had never yelled at her like this. _He spoke with that monk and he is still alive?_ Her hurt gave way to a smoldering anger, though. It boiled up inside her and needed a place to vent. A small tendril of quickening fire arced up her arm as she glowered at Duncan. "And you don't think I have been TRYING to make sense of all this myself? I don't even understand most of the shit going through my head now!" Duncan had his katana in his grasp and was half out of the chair. Amanda just as quickly lost her anger as she sat down and put her head in her hands. "I would never hurt you, Duncan, but I now realize that though I have lived longer than you have, you made far better use of your time." Amanda let out a sigh.

"You have changed, Amanda. You are …different. It may take time to get used to it." Duncan sat back down in the chair and set his sword aside. "Where is Gwyneth?"

"She is sleeping on the couch in the other room. I did not harm her either. Why did you follow that monk, Duncan? He is dangerous."

"I was going to contact Dawson, but it looks like someone attacked the building where he was. I have had no contact from him. His cell phone is offline; it's like he disappeared." Duncan got up and put away his trench coat, then sat back down. He picked up a pen and a pad of paper. "I think we both ought to see what answers we do have, don't you?"

Amanda mutely nodded and sat down near him. "First off, that monk is not Darius, nor is he one dressed as such that I was forced to kill some time ago. He carries a sword on his back and his left hand and arm at least is covered in some sort of armor. Do you concur?"

"Yes, Duncan, that sword is blacker than even iron and he knows how to use it. He also carries a small crossbow that fires poison and acid tipped quarrels."

Duncan was writing this down as he spoke again. "This monk said that the rules regarding immortal combat have been sundered; that they were never a tradition, but conceived by both him and others he knew. He said that this is why this is happening."

Amanda's eyes grew wide as she nodded an affirmative. "Duncan, I swear that I did not know this would happen! I had nothing to do with the theft of those items. I ran into Lyonal as he escaped the place where he was living. He gave them to me a moment before he tried to run…and was killed." Amanda hung her head in shame.

Duncan lifted her head up with his hand and smiled. "It is ok, Amanda; what is happening is out of the scope of both of our experiences. You agree that the rules regarding combat have been sundered?" She nodded acquiescence. "What was the name of the woman you killed?"

"Bronwyn Ap Hwywd."

"And what does Gwyneth have to do with this matter. "

" She is also an Ap Hwywd, though she does not seem to understand that she is."

"How do you know that she is one of them?"

"Her last name, Hyvern, is some sort of Anglicization of the Welsh surname. It originally was Hwywd, though."

"How do you know this?"

"Bronwyn's memories for the most part; I can actually understand the meaning of some of the runes…..and the speech."

"What speech?"

"This speech I now understand as well as English." The strange speech had a singsong quality about it, even though there was a definite diction. "It is called Olden-Tongue or Eldritch speech. They all knew it."

Duncan was writing as fast as he could. He felt that some of this mystery was revealing itself. "Who is that monk?"

"I…really do not know, Duncan…she only referred to him as The Destroyer. He cut his way through their clan house with ten others; he and one other were the only ones standing at the end. She was scared of him; she had to flee…or be killed!"

"He sounds like a destroyer from that description. Why did he kill them?"

"Bronwyn only heard bits and pieces of what happened to provoke the carnage, but they make no sense. She never had any firsthand information, nor was she given any. Her sisters had more information, along with her brothers. "

"Who are they?" Amanda thought for a moment. "Gwynach, Clydweth, they were the other sisters. Gwynach is dead. Colluill is one of the brothers. He is also dead. There are two other brothers, but she barely knew them. One is Dougal Ap Hwywd. He contacted her to intercept Lyonal and get the items he stole. She knows of another one, but not his name. Then there is some sort of furry thing that scuttles around. It is called Taeg. There is also someone else…but she never saw him."

Duncan got up out of his chair and came back with the stolen items. He first removed the half-circlet of silver. "Do you know what the significance of this is?"

"The Destroyer once wore that, but it was long ago."

Duncan once again showed Amanda the cross and the parchment. "What about these?"

Amanda shook her head. "I have no idea what those are or signify."

Duncan next showed her the two books, making sure he did not touch what appeared to be poison imbedded into parts of them. "These?"

"I have no idea regarding those either."

Duncan had half of a page filled so far, but he was not through yet. "Do you know how old Bronwyn was?" Amanda thought for a moment. "She was around when the happening occurred which destroyed their clan house. That was …I cannot relate what she remembered to something you and I would understand! A lot of it is fragmented and even more is…not firsthand. I am sorry."

Duncan had filled nearly two pages with notes, though. "This is one hell of a lot more than we had before, Amanda. What does Ap Hwywd mean; that is regarding a name?"

"It means they are of Clan Hwywd. That was how they identified themselves then, though. Nowadays it means son or daughter of rather than of clan."

"There has not been clan delineation like that for centuries, or maybe even for …millennia?" Duncan was racking his brains, but could not come to any logical answer."

"They were old when Christ was born, and they hold him in contempt. They all do."

Duncan had an idea. "They were not the only clan, though; the Celts were all over the place."

"That is right; Ap Hwywd was only one clan, but powerful. There were others…wait!" Amanda was lost in thought, but only for a moment. "The Destroyer is of….Ap Anon! They were also a powerful clan of note!" Amanda slumped on the couch with an irritated expression. "I still do not know their name, though. Had Bronwyn not had to escape the clan house, she never would have known this much. She saw him as she was fleeing. Bronwyn was not of any importance to the clan; her clan."

Duncan set aside his pen and paper and rubbed his eyes. "We have more information than we did before, but nowhere near enough. I have no way to corroborate the monk's story either. He wants these items back, and it seems he will stop at nothing to retrieve them. I have no intention of doing so until I get some answers. He also said that you will now be in danger because you cut off that woman's head. If what he also said was true, the rules involving combat have been sundered; holy ground will not offer any protection. Be on your guard at all times." Duncan got up from where he was sitting, donned his coat and retrieved his sword. "Where are you going, Duncan?"

Amanda looked puzzled. "I am going to try to find Dawson; he may be able to help in this matter. If he can't, I know a certain rude bastard in monk's robes that threatened me recently. Maybe he will have some answers if Dawson does not."

Amanda's eyes went wide with shock. "Duncan! I am surprised you spoke to him and are still alive. I think I saw him before; it was back during the plague. He almost killed me and my mentor with no provocation from us. My mentor told me after that his kind despised peace and were only happy when havoc reigned."

"That is sort of what Methos said to me before he disappeared, but we will see about that; even though this is not directly your doing, once again, I can figure out where this will lead. Make sure Gwyneth does not wander away from here, either. That monk thinks she is dead." Without further ado, Duncan once again left his residence. Amanda was at once apprehensive and worried; Duncan had no idea of what he would face if he battled that monk. She peeked in to see Gwyneth still asleep, but thrashing and moaning as if she were having a bad dream. Amanda shrugged and switched on the television; taking Duncan's advice, her sword rested close at hand.

Brother Timothy was not having as easy of a time as Duncan was though, relatively speaking. Where Duncan had delineated a clear course of immediate action, Brother Timothy's thoughts were all in turmoil. _I did my best to find Ignatius' murderer and I found him. He is dead, but I was not able to get back what he stole from me. Instead some youngling takes them and is confronted by an Ap Hwywd. Once again, I still cannot get them back. Now yet another pestilential youngling has what is MINE! Why is this happening to me?_ Brother Timothy also realized there would be no way to mitigate the damage anymore. Bronwyn Ap Hwywd was dead. Dougal and Dhurgal were active; it would be only a matter of time before the others were around with even more followers, mortal and immortal. _I will have to hunt that youngling down and get the items back._ _Then I will deal with the Ap Hwywds! _ If only it was that easy; in his mind, dissenting voices also echoed, disturbing the path he had cast for himself. Interspersed with his current train of thought were pieces of Daoine battle song and holy paeans, a realization of the slaughter he had dealt through the millennia and a call of a plaintive voice. _And how many more will you kill? How many more have to die because you can't leave well enough alone? As many as it takes…no matter the cost….What matters is that seventeen more people are dead because of you and many more may die if you keep to this path. Remember the vow that you took so long ago…Marie…no. LONG before Marie! The one you said so long before…you would try to find peace. How can I find peace while they still walk this earth? ….Ardis never really sought peace….he despised it….something to kill or brutalize…no better than the Daoine….An animal you will always be. Not until this is done. Not until…this is over! Until you remember your vow…What one? _His internal musing ceased as he caught a bus towards the place he was staying. The uniform sound of the traveling vehicle lulled him into a light slumber…

**Area of Future England ca. 603 A.D.**

…_It had started from either an epiphany or started long ago before that, but here he was. This 'Jesus Christ' was the one and same who he saw on the cross so long ago. His teachings were spreading as the hegemony Rome had held all these years had finally been sundered. He had a small dwelling on a rather rocky piece of land, but the tedium of taking care of it was driving him insane. A monk was traveling in that area, so he stopped to listen. He was enthralled by what they had to say. Here was a god who did not revel in slaughter, but sought peace and the salvation of man. You could be cleansed of your sin if you believed in this god! And you would not have to wield a weapon in his defense! After he heard the sermon, he asked to be baptized. He was given a name to honor this occasion: Timothy. One thing his piece of land did not lack was a plethora of rocks in all sizes. He set aside his sword and greave as he set himself to his new effort with zeal….._

…_..they had burnt his dwelling and kicked over the walls he had built. The rising gorge of anger he felt was overcome by a feeling he had not felt for a long, long time. He felt at….peace…..without a complaint, he rebuilt the walls of the structure…then a roof. Through rain and cold, he slaved over the structure until it was completed. The monk who had baptized him was pleased; he gave Timothy a crude but stout wooden cross to hang over the entrance to the edifice. Other heathens had assailed the place while it was being built, but they tired of their efforts; despite them, the edifice was built. Timothy had baptized some of them in spite of their attempts to destroy the building. He built himself a place to sleep that was frugal in function, but he really did not need much. He hung his sword and greave on a wall inside the monastery while the crown he once wore and her sword had been recovered; the parchment was long gone to the elements. As tempted as he was to discard them, he could not bear the thought, so he buried them in his sleeping place. Timothy adapted to his new life with no complaints….eventually there arose a village around the monastery and the keepers of it were called Brothers…he was…Brother Timothy…._

…..he jerked out of his slumber and eyed the stop approaching. This was not right! He quickly exited from the bus and consulted an area map. His stop was almost 10 kilometers south of here! He swore, but then sighed. Perhaps a walk would clear his head; he detested the crowds on the bus anyways. It had been a long time since he had remembered the Monastery's creation. He had to find that immortal who now had his possessions, but had no idea how to go about doing it. He would have to think on the matter. As the sun began to set, the air became chillier. Brother Timothy pulled his hood up over his head for the warmth it offered, blithely unaware that he was being followed.


	25. Chapter 24

Once the monk had exited the bus and started walking, they made their plans. Now there were 17 immortals, along with a mortal cadre that was reluctantly invited along. They had dangerous prey to hunt this evening, and strength of numbers would be the only way they could possibly win the day.

Brother Timothy only first became aware something was wrong when he sensed first one immortal, then four others close at hand. Only a few seconds passed from him noticing the immortals around him to becoming acutely aware of his surroundings. He was in a very seedy part of the city by its looks and smell; urine mixed with vomit and offal assailed his nostrils. The few people he could see that were stationary looked as if they were in some sort of fugue; a few were even lying on the ground. He began scanning the area looking for what had alerted him. He started to sense movement a ways up the street, but no more immortal signs. _They were staying out of my range on purpose, _he thought, but they had erred in how far he could sense them. Brother Timothy was on edge instantly, watching for danger. He heard something clatter and bounce on the street towards him as people screamed; some even tried to get out of the way. The explosion of the grenade smacked Brother Timothy across the street and painfully into a wall. His robe had prevented the shrapnel from doing much damage, but he concentrated on healing anyways. All around there was wreckage and dead and fire. _What in hell was that_, he thought. It had been thrown at him on purpose, he knew it. As if to answer his thought, a second object clattered on the ground towards him. Brother Timothy ducked into a stairwell; the blast went over his head. As soon as it ended, Brother Timothy was back out on the street. Chaos was everywhere he could see; smoke and fire also blocked his vision but he could hear scuffling feet running towards him. A woman toting an Uzi came out of the smoke and raised it to fire when she saw the monk. He slapped the weapon aside with his left hand then kicked her to the ground. The rage he was fighting to contain boiled once again to the surface. Throwing back his hood, he drew his sword then pulled the hood back up over his head. The people still able to flee did so faster now when they saw the monk holding a massive sword. He walked slowly and purposefully through the wreckage, only aware of what might assail him; he paid not a moment's attention to anything else. Someone started punching him in the back and head; it felt very unpleasant. Then he realized that no one was near him; those were _bullets!_ Impacting his body, but the robe served its purpose this time very well. Several bullets caromed off of his armor covered left arm with muffled, discordant bell sounds while two ricocheted off of his sword. He heard a cry go up from ahead of him. "Kill the bastard in revenge for our lady!" He heard something clatter again on the ground near him; it was another one of those exploding devices. He kicked it away from him with a snarl of anger and watched in satisfaction as it detonated in the midst of some of his attackers; he looked in glee and pleasure at the carnage. _They want to play war…ok…Some of them are mortal! _More bullets struck his frame again; these were of much heavier caliber than the last barrage; the reports from the shots sounded different. He was knocked down on the street, his sword clattering on the pavement. The shooters made the mistake of getting in too close to their target though. It took only a moment to retrieve the small crossbow in his pocket and load it with a quarrel, the ominous ratcheting sound audible even over the other cacophony. The heavy weapon wielder got a quarrel through his eye. Brother Timothy quickly reloaded and sighted on another one carrying a firearm. They went down as well. Three more shooters died in a short timeframe. Brother Timothy had only 6 quarrels left, but the bullet impacts had stopped. He put away the crossbow not a moment too soon: A male with a scraggly beard was running at him with a longsword and a shield. He grabbed his sword and timed a roll to get out of the way of the swordsman's strike, then used the momentum to once again stand on his own feet. The longsword was not of real good quality; his sword sheared off half of its length from one blow. Brother Timothy spun with the swing and leaped up in the air while bringing the sword around in a full arc. The swordsman's head parted from his body in a shower of blood. Quickening power began to leach from them; it had concluded even as the corpse hit the ground. _Unseasoned, though still immortal,_ the monk thought. No time was left to further muse upon the idiocy of that dead immortal though. Three more ran at him, two had swords, but a third had some sort of metal-hafted spear. It was in clashes like these his greaved arm served him the best. If he could not strike with his sword, he could use the greave to block blows and deal other damage as well. He snapped the spear with his left hand as he blocked a flurry of blows with his sword, and then shifted back to a full two handed stance. Soon, three more dead littered the streets. It was as if he was in some sort of fugue limned by a red haze; even though he saw people scattering before him, he did not register their expressions of fear or horror or really hear them. All there was to him was the acrid scent of fresh blood that soaked him and those who attacked….and died. There was a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach as well. He shook his head as if to clear the fugue from it and he succeeded. Sound came rushing back to his ears as he focused on the carnage around him. Dead, dying and wounded littered the street like so much cast off garbage. Almost two blocks of this part of town were ruined. The combination of their attack and his reciprocal havoc made the immediate area look like something from Dante. He made as to replace his sword when he saw something off to the left. It was the first attacker he had confronted. She was pointing at him while gesticulating at another man. _This probably will not be good,_ he thought. The man pulled a long tube out of a crate and pointed it at Brother Timothy. He heard the projectile at the same time he saw it. He hit the ground as the item flew over his head and impacted a wine store across the street. The front of the store was engulfed in an explosion that killed and injured more people. He heard screams coming from the fire. Brother Timothy got up and moved as fast as he could down the street; maniacal laughter pealed from his mouth. More bullet impacts buffeted him about, but he managed to make it into an alley. As fast as he was in traversing it, he was not fast enough. Another missile was fired behind him and impacted into a section of wall where he was. He was thrown sideways and forward by the blast and was pitched over a trash bin to land painfully on his back. His sword clattered on the stones near him. It took only a moment for him to shake away the after effects of the concussion and once again grasp his sword. He felt something wet on his right foot. It was a nasty cut which even now was healing. He used his left hand to make sure he had his crossbow and other items with himself still then looked up and down the alley. _This is not good,_ he thought. One group approached behind him while yet another started down the other end of the alley. The scent of offal was strong to his nose; some probably had gotten on his robe, but it could not be helped. He ducked down behind the trash receptacle, keeping as close to the shadows as he could. Why show yourself and risk another missile when he could wait for them to come to him?

They no longer had the capacity for rational judgment; their rage had clouded any they might have had. Of the 16 immortals of the original group, only 5 were left alive. Few mortals were alive as well. The monk had some sort of armor under his robe or an _armored_ _robe?_ As much as they wanted to think it was blind luck, many had their doubts. The monk had reaved through mortal and immortal alike with ease, and was unaffected by most everything they had thrown at him. He was what they only hoped to be; a vengeant being fully versed in havoc and destruction. They now had him trapped in this alley; tonight they would mourn their losses but celebrate their victory against their enemy! Unfortunately for even the immortals left alive, they failed to learn from their mistakes.

Brother Timothy had his crossbow loaded and ready. He kept it in his right hand which was hidden behind his body. He would probably only get one shot, so he had to make it count. The ones in front of him seemed to have no device like the ones behind him, so the missile shooter behind him was the target. He peeked out from behind his cover; He heard the ricochets of some bullets aimed at his general direction. They were close enough for a shot, though. "You never learn, do you?" Brother Timothy stepped out from hiding, whipped around and then filed on the missile wielder. The shot was far, so the quarrel aimed for their head hit them in the leg instead. The impact of the quarrel and its payload made the rocket holding attacker scream and jerk his weapon up as he convulsively squeezed the trigger. His rocket went high, soaring out of sight over a building. The wielder of that weapon was dead before he collapsed on the ground. The others in the first group were no match for his sword or his fury; twice more, quickening power was released into Brother Timothy. His actions happened so fast that by the time the second group decided to do something, it was over with the first group. Breathing slightly harder for his exertions, Brother Timothy faced the second group. He started walking towards them slowly but methodically, kicking aside a bloody body part while staying aware of his surroundings and any more tricks to be effected. The second group numbered only seven people, two women and five men. All raised weapons, but Brother Timothy had reached the end of his tolerance. At once, he let his full self be known to the group, but only three staggered or fell to the ground as if ill. Two of the mortals raised weapons and charged him; they died almost in a heartbeat. The three immortals had recovered and screamed foul obscenities at him in French and in Gaelic. The two men drew swords and rushed him, one on either side. The purpose of the maneuver was to force him to commit to one foe while leaving his other respective side open for a blow. It would have worked in most cases, but his greave also served as a shield as well as a weapon. He crossed swords with the right hand attacker while he parried the left hand one with his armored arm. The point of his weapon speared his first opponent, slowing him down enough so that following another block of a blow from the other; he executed a perfect two-handed roundhouse swing that decapitated both opponents in yet another spray of gore. The one left alive lunged towards him with hands outstretched, but she was brought up short when the monk grabbed a fistful of her blond hair. The remaining two mortals ran back down the alley screaming in fear and disappeared. He picked her up until she could barely stand. It was the first one he had encountered tonight at such close quarters. She gasped with the pain and futilely tried to break his grip to no avail. Her blue eyes still held a spark of anger but most of what could be seen there was fear. "How many more of you are waiting for me? Or have I killed them all?" As Brother Timothy waited for an answer, the wail of sirens grew increasingly louder as they converged upon the slaughterhouse. "ANSWER ME! Where is the rest of your cohort?" He violently shook the woman by her hair, but she only became teary eyed as more and more fear registered on her countenance. "I should kill you and be done with it; if you ever attack me again, I will do so. Take a message to the ones you serve and let them know this though if you can: No matter who they send to assail me, I will leave them as bloody charnel on the ground, and then I will kill them as well; they will not be able to stop me!" He cast the woman to the ground as he quickly scanned his surroundings. Yes, his place of abode was out the other end of this alley a short distance away. He quickly sheathed his sword and hooded his visage once again; he needed to get out of sight before too many more sirens converged upon this place. He paid no mind to the woman weeping over the slain behind him, no mind at all. In a short time he had gained his abode and disappeared into its confines.

**Near ****Bryn Alyn, Wrexham, Wales**

Wales itself has a long history; its people as hale and rugged as you will find that live in that sort of land. It is as green and verdant as the other parts of England, but possesses several rugged mountain ranges to complement its geographical demeanor. The people are as proud as the land is rugged and mist-strewn, referring to themselves as Cymry. Washes of various cultures had left their mark here; from the modernized English styled administration areas to the ancient cairn sites scattered throughout the land. For many centuries, these cairn sites were avoided and not trespassed upon due in large part to superstition. That persisted up until modern times, but technology and civilization inevitable encroached. Wrexham was a bustling city which needed rail and road to make its strength known. The youth of the area would at times use the cairn site ruins to throw parties or behave like irascible youngsters; it seemed at one point that the ancient testaments to Welsh culture would be paved over and forgotten. But then a good stroke of fortune arrived: Cultural Anthropologists began to take an interest in the ruins. More importantly, tourists were willing to pay good money to photograph and study the cairns and such. Profit does not always have to have a bad outcome. Soon, the cairn sites and ancient hillforts became places of national significance and it became tantamount to preserve them. Bryn Alyn was one such substantial site, nowhere as well known as Stonehenge, but still substantial in its own right. Due to its private ownership, a fence had been erected around the area to prohibit egress. It was no match for the figure that assailed it though. Dhurgal Ap Hwywd paused upon crossing into the hillfort area to not only get his bearings, but to listen for any other people nearby. He walked slowly but steadily across the land as if searching for something. The ruins of the hillfort and castle were bathed in the light of a partial moon in the sky. In one hand Dhurgal carried a lantern; in the other he carried a crude but sharp cleaver shaped object. His pace increased as he centered on one area comprising the periphery of the ruins. It would almost be odd to mention it, but while the land of the ruins was verdant with growth, this area was _verdant _and while the other areas were green, this area seemed to be _green. _ It was towards this oddly described area where Dhurgal headed with mayhem in mind. Within this odd area were some smaller megaliths but also some cairns. As Dhurgal walked around inspecting these cairns, he began to become agitated. A light breeze blew through the area, but could it have been voices that seemed to carry on the air as he searched. Dhurgal had found what he sought. Setting down the lantern, he attempted to shift the cover stone of the cairn, but not even his prodigious strength would get it to budge. Dhurgal braced himself and set his stance to try yet again, but the mild breeze suddenly picked up in volume and force until it seemed like it assailed Dhurgal like a living being. Sticks, dirt and pebbles painfully impacted him while the wind rose to a noise that sounded more like a Banshee then a wind. Dhurgal did his best to shield himself from the onslaught thrown at him; it was all he could do to retrieve the lantern and blade. There would be no way he could concentrate on moving that cover stone while the wind assailed him so. As he backed away, the force of the wind lessened, but as he moved towards the specific cairn he wanted yet again, it increased. His screaming in rage did naught to change this fact. In rage, he even threw some sizeable rocks at the cairn; it had no effect. Dhurgal was not going to be able to approach the cairn with any semblance of purpose. Howling and screaming his frustration, Dhurgal left the area, the noise of his anger being the only sound for numerous moments. In the restored quiet though, something was happening; the _verdant _and _green_ area began to sort of shift and shimmer. Then there was a feeling of static in the air. The area around the cairn where Dhurgal had been now looked no different than the other areas around the hillfort site. The cairn that had been the object of Dhurgal's attention also looked no different than before, yet for some reason it still looked different as well.

**Vicinity of Lodz, Poland**

She emerged from her communist-era hovel as dusk rapidly overtook the city. In the fading light, Lodz almost looked picaresque; dusk hid well the predations of decades of mining dirty coal from the surrounding areas. She shuffled back into her domicile, muttering to herself and shaking her head.

_What am I doing here and what should I be doing I don't understand why it is I live here and I can not find my baby she is gone he took her but why do I remember it as if it was yesterday and I know it was not and why does my eye hurt so much at times and I cannot remember what I am supposed to be doing here and why do I live where I do and the sky is always so bleak. There is nothing here that is green that is not covered in soot and it depresses me and I was rummaging in my abode and I found a sword but why do I have such a thing and no one ever arrested me for having such a thing but I do not know why I have such a thing and now my door is opening and that thing is inside here and it is chittering at me and reaching for me. It has been in here before it has been here for a while now it started showing up weeks ago and sometimes it stinks of blood and charnel but that does not scare me or bother me but why does it bother me so that it is here but it does not after all. It never wants any food I have but I always offer some to it and it is now dark outside and this is as bad as it ever has been and where is she the baby I birthed so long ago but it was like yesterday when I had her he was fiery of hair when he was on top of me and I was with child and I miss her so._

_ I am looking at a sword I apparently own and I am sharpening the blade and the furry thing is happy when I do that and for some reason I wish to make it happy perhaps because it has sharp teeth and I do not want it to attack me. It is hard to see it at times because I can't see out of my left eye and sometimes it hurts but since it has been around though there is lots of screaming and wailing and police running around some of them ask me questions but I can understand no I have not seen the kid around and they look at me as if I am mad and I still do not know why I am here doing whatever I do and it is confusing at times to figure out what to say and another child was found murdered and the creature shows up with blood on its face and it does not faze me. Its chittering is becoming annoying as I peer out my window and some moonlight shines down on my street and there is a crowd of people gathered in front of my dwelling and they sound angry as the policeman tries to disperse then and why are they here and the creature chitters even more at me and I do not understand what it says and now the policeman is knocking on my door and the crowd of people is close behind him and I do not know of what you speak and no one ever visits me and the creature is here but I can not see them and they must be hiding and I do not know why the policeman is talking to me and that is done and I close the door and lock it and things rattle against my door. I look again at the sword and that creature emerges covered in blood and it is agitated I push it away and it scratches me it has the oddest sort of eyes golden I never saw eyes like that and why did it scratch me when I pushed it away they hurt but now the scratches disappear from me and I do not know why I can not understand what this creature says and how did those scratches disappear and more noise outside and more things hit the door and something crashes through window and hits me in head as I suddenly feel deathly ill as everything spins away in a painful mismatched foggy haze of ignorance….._

She came to lying on the floor. The poor lighting made it hard to see around her shabby domicile, but she raised herself up. She scratched an itch on her head and her hand came away with dried blood. She shrugged at this peculiarity and stood erect. Her domicile was decrepit looking; bits of trash interspersed with mouldering remnants of food. On a table lay a sword in a scabbard; she shrugged, removed the sword, and began to sharpen it. A scurrying sound made her turn to address the source of the disturbance. It was a short, hairy creature with only four fingers to a hand and it was making some noises at her as it capered about. She didn't consider it worth her thoughts, so she went back to sharpening the sword. Still that thing that was in her home chattered at her; it was beginning to get on her nerves. She stopped what she was doing and faced the creature. "Who or what are you, and why won't you shut the hell up?" When it got too close to her, she grabbed it and shook it for emphasis. "Shut the HELL Up!" The creature sank its teeth into her arm and escaped her grasp. It skittered through a doorway. She swore an oath and went to get a cloth from her kitchen. To her utter shock, the bite healed before her eyes and was no more. After she had wiped the blood from her arm, she decided to find that chittering irritant and throw it out of here. _I ..am. _She followed the creature through the doorway, wary of its teeth, and switched on a light. It was an equally decrepit bathroom, neat and tidy, but what fixtures there showed their age, from the cracked faucet and mirror to the rust stained tub. The creature was up in a storage cabinet on the other side. It once again began chittering at her. When she reached for it, it's rather luminous golden eyes flashed fury and it showed its claws and teeth._ Golden Eyes? What sort of thing is this?_ She paused at the mirror and looked at her reflection in it. She was tall of stature with red hair that seemed to have suffered from various environmental predations. Her right eye was the most deepest shade of green that could be imagined; under the dirt on her skin, she could see that her skin was fair and nearly flawless. _I,….am….._ Then she looked at her left side of her face and gasped. What looked like a burn mark or scar of sorts went from above here left brow down to almost her jaw line; it crossed the socket of her eye as well. The eye looked as if it was clouded over with a cataract. The skin underneath the dirt was the pink of scar tissue, but it seemed to throb. She rubbed the scar, but that only made it ache more. She quickly inspected the other parts that were visible to her and saw no other marks. She was large boned as well as tall, her hands quite large for her size. As if there was some sort of urgency, she began divesting herself of her shoddy garments. Soon she stood in front of the mirror nude. Except for the scar on her face, she would have been called voluptuous, from large, firm breasts to a thatch of red hair between her legs. She squeezed one of her nipples and gave a moan of pleasure. Her body, despite her size, was firm from head to toe. She got another shock when she smiled at herself in the mirror; all of her front teeth were pointed, even though they looked white and strong. She looked up where the creature was but it was no longer there. It had skittered up onto the sink and was appraising her with its golden eyes. For what seemed like an eternity, they stared at each other. Then the creature placed its hands on her breasts and began kneading them. Rather than pull away, the woman moved forward into the contact as she moaned again with even more pleasure. It did not matter to her that this creature was only half he height and covered in fur, it felt right. Abruptly the sensation stopped, and before she could even say another word, the creature had its hands on either side of her head. A bolt of bluish lightning streaked from the creature's hands right into the scar on her face. Pleasure was instantly replaced with instant searing pain. Like a harsh wind, the fog was swept from her brain as the creature jumped off the sink and skittered away yet again, leaving her looking in the mirror holding one hand to her scar. The pain abated as another streak of bluish lightning crackled up her arm. _I…am…Clydweth Ap Hwywd._ A shriek erupted from inside her that reverberated through her home as she cradled her left side of her head in her hands…she remembered…

**Monastery of St, Timothy's 1607**

The sun had yet to approach noon before a monk, perspiring heavily in spite of the cool air, approached the Monsignor of The Monastery of Saint Timothy. "Monsignor, may I have a moment of your time. It concerns matters of an urgent nature." The Monsignor only looked upon this interruption with impatience for a moment, until he saw who the monk was. At a gesture, both he and the monk retired into the Monsignor's work area.

"Brother Timothy, would you like some wine?" The Monsignor poured himself a glass.

"No thank you, Monsignor. A drink of water would suit me well, though." The monsignor gestured at several flagons against the wall. After Brother Timothy drank his fill, he sat down across from the Monsignor.

"You look like you already have been hard at work this day, Brother. What matter of import needs to be addressed?"

"I was told of the missing child a few days ago. This morning, someone desecrated several of the gravesites of our brethren…and I found what was left of the child. He was buried in hallowed ground, and I repaired the defilement."

The Monsignor grew pale as his hands shook. "Why is this happening to us? We need to inform London immediately; the king will send us some guards—"

"Monsignor, as much as I would like to think the king will hear our pleas, you should know better than to count on the Crown to assist us. We are not even really a poker chip anymore, or have you not seen the advent of the Church of England?"

"What did they do to the gravesites? And how can we stand by while our children are murdered? Does that not even faze you? And you should not speak so lightly of the Crown as you do, either."

Brother Timothy sighed. "They kicked over a couple of stones, but turned a cross upside down and befouled it with the child's remains. You know who and what I am, this will not be the first time I have seen such, no it is not. And if it seems I speak lightly of the Crown, it is because they are in essence fools with few exceptions. Queen Elizabeth was pragmatic, but she is dead. The changing over of the throne this time involved a son of a woman whose head was cut off by her late majesty. There is no telling of what game of perfidious thrones they play there now. We have to take care of this matter ourselves."

The Monsignor shook his head and chuckled, though he was still pale. "I at times can not equate who you are with what you said that you are. I know that if I look long enough, there is myriad proof to support your claim. What shall we do to address this problem, then?"

"I will need a missive to reconstitute the guard from sundown to sunup. Monks have guarded this place a number of times before; sometimes in the process of crossing the Crown."

"You expect peaceful men of God to battle intruders into this house of worship? They would be as sheep before wolves!"

"Not if they are given the cudgels we have stored….and absolution for their sins. There are several of the monks who are capable." Brother Timothy paused, then spoke again," There may be a fell evil lurking about this place; who better than men devoted to god to defend it?"

The Monsignor shook his head with sorrow, but signed the missive.

As Brother Timothy headed across the main area of worship, he saw the artifacts of the monastery hanging on the wall and went over to inspect them. A conscious effort had to be made to not take them from their mounts. _No, I will not wield these this time. The guard will be sufficient. This is a house of God and peace. _Happily, only a small part of his inner self objected to his conscious restraint.

It was later in the day when Brother Timothy made final preparations to guard The Monastery of Saint Timothy. By the time the day had ended and evening was upon the edifice, the arrangements had been made. Armed with the missive from the Monsignor, he had already selected the monks for the guard duty. Some like Brother Alfred were only too happy to volunteer, others like Walter simply acquiesced. In a room of no real significance, the seven monks stood facing him. Each of the seven held in their hands a rather impressive cudgel of near six feet long with iron rings binding both ends. The monks' expressions ranged from utter shock at the weapons to nervousness and even curiosity.

"Brother Timothy, why are we being given these fell weapons of war? Someone could be injured if struck by one of these!"

"Yes, these are war cudgels. You were excused from your duties so as a possible issue could be addressed. There are signs that things unholy may be encroaching upon this place of our solitude, and the Monsignor agreed that some defense should be mounted. Dead animals killed most cruelly and defacement of some of the graves of our brothers is but only two things that have happened."

"But we are men of peace…they who preach god's word to those seeking salvation. Is it not apostasy to expect us to injure our fellow man with such as this! Do we not have the protection of her majesty the Queen?" Brother Martin was an older monk, and well educated for the times.

Brother Timothy laughed, but the laughter was bereft of humor. "We did have her protection, but she is dead. It is not to say that King James can't be trusted, but there is no telling what game of thrones they now play in London. You may learn in time that the gentry are even more fools than the common folk. As such, it falls to us to protect what is ours."

"How will we know when or if to use this item, brother? How will we know who is our enemy?" Brother Lawrence, even if small of stature, was steadfastly obedient in obeying edicts from those he deemed to be in authority.

"You know who is to be here and who is not to be here; to make it simple, no one will be allowed into here after sunset. Hopefully, your dedication to protecting this monastery from evil overrides your reluctance in striking a blow in adherence to your faith. There is a time for everything. For this duty, you all have received your absolution?" The monks all nodded. Brother Timothy prepared to leave, then halted and turned. "Four at the front gate and three at the postern entrance should suffice. If the danger is grave, ring the alarm bells near the entrances." With that said, Brother Timothy left the room. Shortly after, the monks also left, though a rather animated conversation was going on amidst them.

"Isn't it odd that Brother Timothy was tasked with this matter of import? There are several monks including myself with far more seniority." Brother Marcus was a rather officious sort, even if properly revenant.

"I don't know why, brother; perhaps it is gods will that it happened this way?" Brother Edward shrugged; he was very new to the brown robes, having only recently been raised from initiate ranks. As such, he was not in any real position to question.

"I still think giving us fell weapons of this sort is asking for trouble. At times I think Brother Timothy lives in a different world than we do." Brother Martin sighed, "Matters of this sort are best left to the Crown. Doesn't our village remit its share of taxes when time is due?"

"I personally think it is better to do as Brother Timothy says then have to look into his visage. There is something about him that almost always sets me at ill ease, as if he watches everyone and everything." Most of the other monks nodded their agreement to his statement. Brother Eoric was a peculiarity in the monastery. He had journeyed on his own to this place to take his vows. Compared to the others, his complexion was swarthy; he had stated that he was from Seville or thereabouts. His eyes flickered with intelligence and he was one of the most well read in the monastery, but would never seek to get out of his chores or any work for that matter. His devotion was fully to God and the Church.

"We should look at this as an opportunity, brothers! We are relieved of our regular duties whilst this one takes precedence!" Brother Arthur, if pious enough for the monastery, was always seeking a way to get out of his daily chores and work. He was constantly being admonished by the senior monks for this lack of motivation. He often was put in charge of the initiates, and was least likely to discipline them for failure in their duties. If it even could be possible for this time, Brother Arthur actually was somewhat overweight to boot, but by no means was he a fool. His eyes sparked with intelligence and he was possessed of a jovial wit.

"As if I am surprised you would see it that way Brother Arthur. I wondered why you were first to volunteer your services." If anyone was the opposite of Brother Arthur, it was Brother James. Of only average height and size, he took his position quite seriously. As easy as Brother Arthur was on the initiates was as harsh as James would be. He suffered no laxity in duties or studies; many an initiate had felt the lash of his voice and hickory switch. To him, service to God was not something to be taken lightly. He was quick to complain about the other brothers' perceived laxity to the Monsignor….all save one…..the one who had given them the cudgels and their duty. Brother James knew better to cross Brother Timothy. He was unrepentant in his harshness and excoriations, but there was only one Brother that irked him more than Brother Arthur. "What duty we are given to bring us closer in glory to our God is duty I will perform without question. It represents also a way to absolve us of the sins we have committed solely by being born in sin." His serious expression changed to a sort of twisted smirk as he spoke again. "You would know quite well of another sort of sin of which I speak, wouldn't you Brother Walter!" If Brother James sought to provoke, he failed in all but a baleful expression from the other monk's visage.

Brother Walter said not a word in response to Brother James' jape. His left eye was cast and the left side of his face was misshapen, the results of a difficult birthing of his person. Lank brown hair surrounded his pock-marked visage, the pyrrhic victor of an epidemic of smallpox. Brother Walter towered over the other monks, approaching near 200 centimeters tall with strength and size to match. His eyes spoke of a high intelligence but also of much pain. His rapid growth forced him into doing an adults job when still technically a child; it was the only way he could get enough sustenance. With his rapid growth also came a more rapid onset of adult urges. He was unmercifully teased by all in the village where he came for this fact. The women enjoyed brushing up against him to tease him erect then watched him be embarrassed in trying to hide his erection in his cast off, tattered clothes. The need to relieve himself overrode the concept of sin he was taught, so he began servicing livestock when he could. On one day a young maid decided to tease him yet again, rubbing up against him to make him erect, the skipping away laughing her contempt. A red rage suffused him this time though; it only abated when she lay weeping and bloody in a pile of hay. Only two days later the local constabulary came for him, but he did not go peaceably. It took 5 men to bind him to go in front of the magistrate. What words he could say to defend himself were of naught. The villagers already had a thick rope hanging over a tree limb waiting for his presence. It was then a monk arrived as a passenger on a wagon. The monk stared at him reproachfully, but he stared even more so that way to the villagers. The gist of the matter was he left with the monk and was taken to this Monastery. That was a few years ago. He knew he would never be able to go back to his village, but he no longer had the desire to do so. He had to work here too, but it was no harder than the work he had done before. There were no women around here to tease him, no kids pelting him with horse shit. The monk who had saved him was called Brother Timothy. At first it was hard learning to control his rage, but he managed to do so. He learned that the maid that he violated had borne twins. Brother James was unrelenting in the sin that Walter had committed, and never let Walter forget that fact. Brother James' life would have been cut short had not Brother Timothy began showing him different things, strange things, ODD things. Brother Walter could READ! Brother Timothy showed him how to READ! He had learned how wrong what he had done was and wept over it. Then Brother Timothy showed him how to WRITE! He was so in awe at Brother Timothy's skill with parchment he could almost forget Brother James. He did his work without complaining; he knew he was stronger than most men. Brother Arthur liked being with Brother Walter for that very reason; Arthur could get Walter to do most of their work. Brother Timothy was no shirker of his duties though. Brother Walter was perplexed at this at first, but soon got used to it. Then one day Brother Timothy showed him a quarterstaff. At first he got discouraged due to his shambling gait and slow speed, but Brother Timothy refused to let him quit practicing. Soon, only Brother Timothy could stand against Brother Walter with a stave. Once though, Brother Walter had saw Brother Timothy not with a stave, but the holy artifacts of the Monastery. He wielded the sword like one used to it. Brother Timothy stopped his practice with it when he saw Brother Walter staring at him. Blue lightning seemed to emanate from Brother Timothy, but it did not frighten Walter. Brother Timothy's expression did though. It was not just his visage that looked positively vehement, it was his eyes. Brother Walter found Brother Timothy's eyes scary into which to stare. He recalled that Brother Timothy almost always went around with his hood up over his head. He promised Brother Timothy that he would speak of what he saw to no one. Brother Timothy had saved his life, so he would do what needed to be done without question.

It was Walters's foul luck to be grouped with Brother James at the postern entrance, but Brother Edward was also with them. Brother Marcus was fair as he possibly could be under the circumstances, though. Out of the seven Monks, Walter, James and, believe it or not, Arthur were the best with the weapons.

_She sat on a grassy knoll with Taeg, eating her fill of their meal. The woman, though young, was nowhere near as tender and succulent as her child, but the provender was more than adequate. They washed up in a stream close by then sat back to wait until the sun had set. Clydweth was an impressive looking woman, from her thick wave of fiery red hair to the mesmerizing green of her eyes. She stood just short of 180 centimeters with Valkyrian proportions to match. This in no way detracted from her physical beauty whatsoever as long as one did not see her sharpened front teeth of the manic light that seemed to shine from her eyes. In contrast, Taeg was severely diminutive in stature; 120 centimeters would be stretching it. It was all fur, claws and teeth, and much faster on its feet then the woman. It chittered as it capered around her in seeming delight, yet also agitation. __Will he be there? We will kill him and then we will be free to control this world!__ Taeg could also speak Eldritch tongue; it possessed a rather keen intelligence, if only really of a bestial sort; perhaps at some time in the misty past, someone had taught it to speak. __We will, Taeg, we will. We must have patience though; soon they will settle in for the evening, then we can be on him before he even knows we are here. I only hope you have not warned him with your depredations you have constructed. __ Clydweth sat on the knoll, lost in thought…_

_ She had thought this through in her mind; replayed it figuratively thousands of times. __He butchered Colluill and Gwynach. __She had beheld the grisly evidence of that act herself in what was left of the Barony. The carnage that remained to be seen was fell to behold. The evidence of flame, acid and dried blood abounded. Her brother and sister's corpses had been near picked clean to the bone. There was evidence of a massive conflagration here, but when she asked about it, all she got was frightful stares and the whisper of rumor. The rumor was enough for her to get an idea of what happened. Her brother and sister thought they would relive what they had felt was the high point of their clans existence, but made the grave mistake of who their enemy really was. Her rage burned white hot as she traveled around the land seeking…HIM! And she had found him too; she and Taeg had found him! Vengeance would be hers at last! The voice in her head was now sepulchral. __He does not fear you or any other of your clan. __She had thought victory would be hers anyways. It took only a few minutes to realize that even if she felt she was not outclassed, she had met an equal. He had injured Taeg grievously with his left arm; she had no idea then that his left arm was covered in armor. Taeg had leaped upon him to aid her, but he had casually backhanded it off the rise. She had landed some blows upon him, but nothing even close to mortal. She had shredded his monastic robe as well, but that only seemed to increase his fury. He had scored some blows as well; her shield lay in 4 pieces on the ground. She was his equal in height, but he was no layman with the sword he carried either. Her longsword was a good deal smaller than what the monk carried; without her shield, she was at a distinct disadvantage. She wondered how much of this her slain brother and sister found out before they died. She was only slightly faster than he was and he still had a shield of sorts. A blow struck at him was blocked first by the sword, and then by his armored arm. A sharp kick to her ruined and scored breastplate sent her tumbling down a hill, sword flying away from her grasp. She rushed to get back up the hill, but he had fled. She found Taeg impaled on a tree and released it from its painful repose. I will find that filthy coward again and KILL him! The voice in her head laughed a hollow laugh in reply to her thoughts. __You think that his fury will abate within those walls? And do you think he really is a coward? And what of the truce that has been declared? __Why did he not fight me on that ridge then? He will pay for the death of my siblings; our clan! We will triumph against that what he declared; that was blackmail, not a truce! I was against it being agreed to in the first place! _

_ She was snapped out of her reverie by the sound of approaching feet. She had not been able to locate any of her siblings except for Dougal, and he was willing to provide her only some of what she needed for her task. He had refused to become involved in her scheme directly, giving no concrete reason for his decision, but he had sent her some allies of a sort. A cadre of a dozen armed mortals had halted in front of her. They assuredly did not look top rate, but their weapons seemed to be in good order. The one who was the leader doffed his cap and mad a semi-formal bow. "I was instructed that I would find you here at this time, milady. How may we be of assistance?" Without further ado, Clydweth fell to the task of plotting the victory that would assuredly be hers…..._

_It was just past the eleventh hour of the evening, and all was in adequate order with the monks on guard duty. Brother Walter, Brother Edward and Brother James stood guard at the postern gate. There was only so much time to be spent catching up on what paeans that you had neglected to say during the day; it was inevitable that boredom would set in. While Brother Edward paced restlessly near the entrance, Brother Walter was engrossed with a piece of parchment he was reading by the light of a sconce. Brother James was eyeing Brother Walter with the peculiar expression he had on his visage when he decided to belittle or denigrate another monk. "You would think that such as you would need to be even more pious then the rest of us considering your sins, do you not think so Brother Walter?" Brother Walter paid him no heed, absorbed in what he was reading. Brother James cuffed him in the head. "You will LISTEN to me when I speak to you! I am senior to you in this edifice!" This time Brother James elicited a response, even if it was only a silent stare filled with not a small amount of malice. "Well, have you said your paeans for this day, Brother Walter? Or is it that you seek in your mind to visit upon yourself even more sin? Answer me!" _

_ Brother Walter sighed and arose from his resting position, cudgel in one hand and parchment in the other. "Sycophant."_

_Bother James was aghast. "What did you say to me?" _

_ "I said you are a belligerent sycophant." Walter went back to what he was reading. Brother Edward snorted with laughter upon hearing the comment. Brother James whirled to address Edward. "You think that that verbal disrespect is amusing? I will report the both of you to the Monsignor! You will yet learn your place in this house of God!" Edward was in shock, giving James some satisfaction, but not enough for him to get his fix. He turned to address Brother Walter again, but found himself staring at a broad chest. Walter had stood up to his full height and was looking down on James, a sort of smile gracing his features. In Walters's left hand were some copied pages from The Summa Theologium. He firmly gripped his cudgel in his right as he addressed Brother James. "You should worry about those sins you have committed, Brother James; is it not up to God and God alone to worry about everyone's sins? Shall I then complain to Brother Timothy about how you treat Brother Arthur and me?" Brother James was cowed, but not utterly defeated. "And the profanity of you violating one so frail and maiden and your perverse lusts—" Brother James' invective was choked off by a massive hand in which parchment crackled. ."That is for God to decide, not you, no, not ever you. As God as my witness, I shall stay my hand for the good grace of life in the hereafter. One as you though would bear the mark of the devil for what invective you deliver unto the rest of us." Brother Walter released Brother James, but in his eye there was the same baleful stare as was before, yet no sign of anger. Brother Edward sounded out a gasp. "Someone is attempting to force the postern entrance to here!"_

_ The front entrance to the Monastery also was writ with the mark of tedium upon its watchers. While Martin and Eoric quietly argued some point of doctrine, Marcus stood near Brother Arthur, both silent for the moment and some distance away from the entrance while they stared at the painting in the main part of the Monastery._

"_That painting is almost 600 years old; where do you think the painter got that idea? That does look a lot like the sword we have here, but still. Look at the carnage depicted there." Brother Martin scanned the whole painting with his eyes. _

_Brother Arthur was doing the same thing. "That was a much earlier time than now; even the modern line of kings had yet to visit the land. It must have been a trying time then, what with raiders and brigands about, nothing like we have now. I think that with the death of the queen, the days where they play the game of thrones are assuredly numbered. As for this painting, it probably was the glorification of some minor skirmish with brigands or some such."_

"_You would treat the centerpiece of this monastery so lightly, Brother Arthur?" Brother Marcus had approached them unnoticed._

"_Far be it from me to denigrate this Monastery's Benefactor, but you would have to agree that this represents symbolism as much as any fact. There has to be at least ten in the glade area. It would be preposterous to think that one man could so wantonly kill that many people by themselves. You know, if you put a more doom-laden expression on that slayer, he would look a bit like Brother Timothy!" Brother Arthur chuckled at the comparison._

"_That work was painted by one of the Monsignors of this edifice, the very one who had this place renamed. His glorious creation does not deserve such fell mockery! As if you would dare say that to Timothy's face!" With that, Brother Marcus spun around and stalked back towards the entrance._

_Brother Arthur shrugged. "As much as there is wisdom in accepting God's word, so is there also the same in recognizing human limitations. It would be ridiculous to see life any other way." He also headed back to the entrance, Brother Martin following in his wake._

_Clydweth gave some thanks for her luck. Though she had hoped for a cloudy night, there were at least some clouds. As soon as what showed of the moon was shielded by the aforementioned, she and her cohort moved swiftly to end up at the postern entrance to the Monastery. She looked around but could not find Taeg, but she knew it could take care of itself. Entering through the front entrance was out of the question, due to her lack of numbers and the size of the front entrance to the Monastery. It would not have held up too long under a trebuchet, but was proof to any attack by men alone. So they stood at the postern entrance, a much smaller version of their front doors and nowhere as stoutly built. Two of the men fell to the hinging with a set of tools while the others checked their armor and weapons. "You are to harm no one in these walls except who I say you can; any plunder that you find you may keep. Is that clear?" The leader of the armed men nodded acquiescence as the men breached the postern gate and entered the Monastery._

_ The postern gate was at the end of a rather wide corridor which had yet another double door at the other end, possibly to prevent a snarl of traffic in case there was need to flee. The invaders glanced nervously at what could only be murder holes near the top of the corridor. That was something seen in the exterior of a castle or along its entryways, not in a monastery! The group approached the doors as quietly as possible and opened one of them. The door did not squeak; its hinges had been well oiled._

_Hopefully you will strike to defend this place of worship rather than not do so in defense of your faith. __This burned into the minds of the three monks facing the doors as one of the doors opened and what only could be armed soldiers slipped inside. Brother Edward, though fearful, had his cudgel in hand. Brother James had his resting like a staff on the floor. Brother Walter was the sole one of the three with both hands on his cudgel. Though the room in which they were was not that small, Monastery supplies and some provender were stacked against the walls and in some piles on the floor. A couple of spare pews of older construct presented further obstacles. The Monks were not directly visible from the doorway due to the storage, but as the unmistakable sound of people filled the room, Brother James boldly stepped out and showed himself. There were several moments of silence as he saw a number of armed soldiers. Brother James broke the silence as Brother Edward moved up closer._

"_Who are you to enter here at this hour? The hours of Worship are at sunrise!" The soldiers looked a bit taken aback to find people here where there should have been none. _

"_Stand aside, Brother, and you will not be hurt; we have no truck with ye this time out." The soldiers immediately ignored Brother James and continued around the few obstacles towards the hallway leading from the room. As they proceeded on their path, Brother Edward appeared, followed by Brother Walter._

"_My Brother asked you a question; what are you doing here at this hour with weapons which violate this edifice?" Brother Walter's size was enough to make the men take notice. When one of the men tried to push Brother Walter aside, he was himself pushed back with equal force. The soldier tried to draw his weapon but Walter's cudgel snapped across the distance and cracked the soldier on the arm hard enough to draw a gasp of pain. "I asked you a question!" Something skittered across the floor, distracting Walter for a moment. He saw something brown and furry and quick on its feet. _

_Brother James yelled at him "Remem__ber what Brother Timothy said!" Brother James' voice now boomed out with the sound of religious fury. "You are NOT allowed into this edifice! Leave and take your profaning contingent with you at ONCE!" An 11__th__ person entered through the back door clad in full armor and a shield. _

"_Seize them before they warn anyone else!" The newest arrival yelled. Then all hell broke loose._

_3 soldiers charged at Brother Walter as 4 more went for Edward and James. Cudgel met sword and armor in the cacophony of battle . The 3 that charged Brother Walter got a nasty surprise; though he was initially pushed back by them charging him, he used his far greater size to shove his attackers away. At first he only used his cudgel to ward off blows from the soldiers, but then one slashed his left shoulder. He felt the anger of his old self rise to the surface, but made no effort to restrain it this time. The end of the cudgel with his weight behind it cast one soldier to the floor. Seeing a soldier dart in on his right side, he swung the cudgel in a fatal arc, striking the soldier on the neck and killing them instantly. Others joined against him as Brother Walter found himself fighting for his life._

_Brother James did not have massive size on his side, but he had religious zeal. It never occurred to him to be afraid; his God would protect him against these heretics. He has a cut on his scalp and he was breathing hard though; it was all he could do to fend off his attackers. He finally landed a solid enough blow to knock one of the soldiers down, but he paid for that with a light wound across his chest. He heard a scream as he saw Brother Edward fall, but nothing prepared him for what he saw next. Brother Edward was down with a transpierced shoulder and a gash on his side, but SOMETHING had skittered up to him and was gnawing at the shoulder. A glancing blow to James' head made him stagger, but he recovered. He swung his cudgel in a full arc to make his attackers retreat, then he looked again at Edward. Whatever that thing was, it looked like it was EATING Brother Edward or trying to do so. In Brother James' world view, this only strengthened his resolve. He knocked the thing off of Edward with his cudgel; it grimaced at him as it snarled its defiance, mouth red with Edwards's blood. He turned to meet his other attackers, but he was too late. A stinging blow to his left hand made him release the cudgel. It was then torn from his other hand as he was knocked to the floor and held at sword point._

_Brother Walter was perspiring heavily and had numerous minor wounds. The cut on his thigh pained him little as he battled on. He shifted his swing in time to catch another soldier off guard and heard bones break as the soldier screamed and dropped his sword. That still left many more to assail him; the other figure that had emerged last was waiting some distance away from the battle he was fighting. As a soldier leapt on him from behind, the one with the broken arm pulled out a poniard Dagger and slashed at Brother Walter, cutting him in the face. He had scored a hit on his opponent, but it cost him his life. The end of the cudgel smashed the soldier's nose into their brain; they slumped to the floor. The remaining cohort managed to disarm him though and pounded him to the floor senseless under a flurry of cruel blows._

_The Leader of the armed men raised his sword for a killing blow when Clydweth snapped, "Put your sword away! I said there would be no killing unless I said so!"_

"_This bastard killed two of my men and wounded another! You didn't tell us about monks with war cudgels. What's next, we gonna get the rest of them with the same? You can't say that this did not wake the place."_

"_Not a chance. They built this place well. Now I will find out where he is!" Clydweth stalked over to the average sized monk and picked him up off the floor by his robe with one mailed hand. "Where is he? Where is Brother Timothy?" She shook the monk for emphasis._

_Brother James regarded Clydweth with a sepulchral look. "What would a person who consorts with such a fell as a creature I saw want with a Brother of the Monastery? You are beneath contempt from your heresy!"_

_Clydweth grew livid at this affront. This puny little insect! She slapped Brother James in the face with a gauntleted hand. Blood began to trickle from James' nose. "I will ask you again: Where is Brother Timothy? I know that filthy coward resides here somewhere." Brother James' look was still as judgmental as it was; no trace of fear crossed his visage. Clydweth looked over where Walter was, then snapped her head to the left. "Where is that third monk! Bring him here; maybe that one will talk!" She cast Brother James to the floor in disgust._

_I have failed in my duty to this place of God! __Nothing else mattered to Brother Edward, not the pain of his left shoulder or the gash in his chest, only the fact he had failed to strike with the full fury of his faith. He saw the other monks go down, but Walter had killed two of them; even some of James' former attackers had injuries. But he had failed miserably at his task! The one who was in full armor was screaming at Brother James, but all seemed to be focused on them. Ever so slowly he shifted himself back with his right arm until he had put some distance between himself and the fully armored knight. It took some effort, including the will to not cry out when he put weight on his left arm, but he had arrived at a kneeling position. He had failed, that was true, but perhaps he could call aid, perhaps he could. As quietly as he could he edged towards the back of the room. Recessed within a hollow in the wall was a rather small sized bell, but it was surrounded with a cupola of metal. He heard a sound and turned. He had been discovered! In desperation he lunged at the bell with his right hand and grabbed the pull cord. Despite its small size, the din it made was magnified by the cupola, temporarily deafening him. He never saw a soldier come up behind him and smash him in the head with something heavy. He slumped to the floor where a pool of blood began to form._

_The monk had been able to ring the bell only 2 times before being struck down, but the damage had been done. Even the dead would have heard that. Clydweth thought. That filthy coward may have been warned! She could not be concerned with that now, though. She pointed at 3 of the men. "You will head down the hallway to where the monks sleep. Find the one called Timothy and bring him here to me!" The three disappeared through the far door. _

"_What do you want us to do, milady?" The leader of the soldiers asked_

_. "You will stay here with me in case they posted more guards!" She had a slight amount of grudging respect for the monk who had killed two of her cohort; there was no telling if others similar to him were not also on watch._

_Though the bell only had tolled two times, its sound reverberated throughout the monastery, from the front entrance to the rear, through the abattoir and into the sleeping areas of the Brothers. The seeming lethargy of the Brothers on guard at the front entrance disappeared in a moment. Martin, Marcus, Eoric and Arthur all grabbed their staves as they snapped erect. "That is the postern bell! What shall we do? There still would be a chance they could enter the front gate as well while we answer the call. Do you suppose it could be a ruse?" Brother Marcus had a look of abject fear on his visage, but he had spoken logically._

"_We render it impossible to do so, if not as near as possible to that scenario." Lazy, jovial Arthur had been replaced with a quick-thinking version that showed no fear or sloth. "Eoric, help me place the gate bar into its holder. We must do so quickly!" It took some effort, but they managed to lay it in place. "Let us now see who rang the postern bell, Brothers!" Without any further hesitation, Brother Arthur led the way, followed by Eoric, and a visibly frightened Marcus and Martin._

_He dreamed of verdant fields and endless vistas as far as he could see. A warm sun shone down upon him from a cloudless sky while a cool breeze washed across his skin. It was as close to heaven as he could imagine. He knew who he was, but that did not seem to matter here. All was at peace here, all at peace. Even now he saw a burbling rill amongst the grasses and he seemed to remember he was thirsty—_

_BONG!_

_-the stream and verdant land seemed to shimmer away until there was naught but the blackness of slumber—_

_BONG!_

_-which itself shattered as he became near instantly wide awake. That was the postern gate bell! Who sounded it and why? He quickly threw on a robe and garnered a candle and flint. Except for a few sleepy inquiries from the other cells, no other monk had ventured forth to investigate. They can not be faulted, he thought, they are after all men of God. As he approached the entry to the sleeping quarters though, he heard the clash of combat in the main room. A perturbed expression accompanied his quickened pace to the source of the noise. Three armed men were fighting with 4 of the brothers in an all out melee. The brothers had knocked back their attackers, but at least two of them were injured. Upon sighting him, one of the armed invaders charged at him, sword upraised. He paid it no mind until the sword struck him on the left arm, biting deep. He felt the pain and knew he had been struck, but to him it was a fever dream of sorts. His right hand slugged his assailant in the face; their head cracked against stone as they slumped to the floor. His left arm was still numb and painful, but even through the rent in his robe, he saw the wound heal. The two other armed soldiers fled back down the way they came as the two monks stared at him aghast. Why they were looking at him that way, he didn't know, though he thought it as odd. He started to then think, who had invaded the monastery. Well, perhaps he should look into the matter. He picked up a stave while both monks still looked at him strangely, but he saw something else that piqued his interest. It rested on the wall in the area where he was, a sword in a scabbard…..he pulled his hood over his head, he was feeling a bit chilled. Should he be feeling something else as well? He removed his robe…_

_The monks had driven back the invaders, but were in a quandary as to what to do. Marcus had a cut on his shoulder and Eoric was bleeding from a nasty head wound. Martin was in shock but handling himself well. It was Arthur that looked visibly perturbed.__ "What is going on here, Brother Timothy. What are you doing? And in GODS name, what in hell did you just do?" Brother Timothy did not pay him any attention because he was MOUNTING! the relic sword and the odd piece of armor. Brother Arthur plucked at Brother Timothy's sleeve where the rent was apparent, but he was paid no mind at all. His visage had a flushed look and his eyes looked glazed. "Arthur, what will we do with this one? He is awakening!" "Go and find out why that bell was rung, we will watch them for you." Eoric was in pain, but stood steady upon his feet. "Who is that under the hood and what is that blue glow?" Arthur and Marcus glanced at Brother Timothy, who had tendrils of blue crackling from his frame. The monks all crossed themselves. Arthur answered cautiously, "That is Brother Timothy and he is behaving rather strangely."_

_Once he had the armor mounted and the sword, he saw no need to tarry; he headed down the way the soldiers fled, paying the fallen one nary a glance. He no longer felt at ease anymore. He felt perturbed, though his gait was at best a casual one. As he approached the rear of the edifice, he heard more noise. He emerged upon a scene that did not seem right…_

"_Where is your other companion! Why have you not brought that monk here!" Clydweth was in a rage. Her visor was up on her armor; her green eyes burned with fury. "We attempted to do what you asked, milady, but we ran into 4 more monks who assailed us with more staves!" The soldier rubbed a bruised area on his arm as he did so. She pushed him aside. "Can you not do anything that I ask! What fools am I to suffer—" She felt the jolt from her head to her feet. She whipped her gaze around the room to find only Taeg, the remaining soldiers, and the captive monks. She looked towards the entry from where the unlucky soldiers had emerged. Someone approached…HIM! She lowered her visor and had her sword at the ready…_

_He heard some noise behind him and turned. The two monks still able to fight paused a short distance from him, their looks mixing wariness and shock. He bade them to precede him into the open area. They could use the staves to better defend themselves; what he had would take time to draw…They emerged to see the other soldiers, three surrounded brothers, and a knight in white armor. True to their training, the monks with him snapped their staves into a guard position, ignoring the stuttering blue crackling across his frame. He found the feeling of it discomfiting to say the least. What was happening here? One monk was collapsed upon the ground in the corner by the postern bell. They did not move. Two other monks we held at bay by soldiers. Then he noticed another thing that was odd. The two monks behind him and the two held captive, they were staring at him. Why were they staring? He stared fascinated by some brown furry thing as the two monks that accompanied him confronted the soldiers remaining._

_Brother Arthur had his cudgel ready to strike as he eyed the soldiers and the night. There was something furry moving around in the shadows as well. One of the soldiers spoke. "There are two of the ones who attacked us as we went to find the one you sought. Milady." He looked at Brother Arthur. "Where is the one called Brother Timothy! Speak up soon or it will go ill for you!" "Why is it that you seek one of the brothers and have brought violence to this place of God?" "That is no matter of yours…where is that Monk!" Arthur became adamant himself. "Leave this place of worship and take your violence with you! Brother James, are you ok?"_

_Brother James felt relief in seeing fellow brothers present, but he knew the situation was dangerous. "I am well enough, Brother Arthur, but Brother Edward is seriously hurt. It was he that rang the postern bell." Arthur gestured at Marcus to see to Edward. Arthur made to speak again, but the other monk with him and Marcus walked out in front of him. His study of the furry thing was ended; now it was time to study other anomalies here. Arthur gasped when he made to walk over to the soldiers and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Brother Timothy, what is wrong with you?" Upon hearing that name several soldiers became alert. "There is the one you seek, milady. Just a moment and I will bring him to ye!" The soldier stalked over to where the monk was, but was confronted by the solid thunk of a heavy cudgel hitting the floor and barring his way. Brother Arthur had interposed himself into the soldier's path. "You were told to leave here; you are through laying hands on any other of the Brothers." The soldier rudely shoved Brother Arthur aside and laid a hand on the monks left arm. It was the last mistake he would ever make._

_Why was that monk interfering with him? He wanted to see the knight standing behind the soldiers. They looked so regal! The knight was concentrating on him too. The bluish tinge crackling around him had almost completely abated. He wanted to know what was wrong here, but he could not place it in his mind. A soldier had confronted the monk who had laid a hand on him and had done the same, but then the soldier leapt back from him as if he was somehow …different….the soldier reached for a dagger at his hip…why?_

"_This one as some sort of armor on his left hand!" The soldier drew his dagger and slashed at the monks face, cutting through the side of his hood as well as gashing his brow. The hood flopped down to reveal not only the wound, but the pommel of some sort of weapon. "They have a sword too! What is with all of this havoc we are seeing? This is supposed to be a place of God!"_

_That HURT! He felt chilled yet again as blood blocked his right eye. The wound stung. Why did they do that? By reflex he reached with his left hand to wipe away the blood, but for some reason his hand was covered in metal! Blue light began to crackle over him again as the pain fell away and the blood dried. He could now see out of his right eye again, but more soldiers approached him with grim expressions and drawn weapons. With the cessation of pain also came an end to the fog in which his mind was enshrouded. His look of puzzlement melted away to be replaced by one of rage and anger…_

_Brother Timothy snapped alert and glowered at the soldier that had cut him. "Drive these interlopers from this edifice, Brothers! I will deal with the knight! HAVOC!" Brother Timothy smashed his left fist into the soldier that had wounded him as he stepped back and drew his sword….._

_Without even thinking on their actions, Brother Walter and Brother Arthur moved to the attack, but were forced to the periphery as Brother Timothy drew his sword. Brother Timothy was confronted by no less then seven armed soldiers. The knight had drawn their sword, but they stood back from the fray. The offending soldier rushed in to attack yet again, but his sword stroke was met head on by what the monk carried. The blow carried through the sword to slash through the cuirass and the flesh beneath. The first soldier fell, mortally wounded. Once more hell reigned in an alleged abode of heaven….._

_Brother James rushed to pick up his cudgel, but his hand had become too abraded in the first melee. He cursed at his foul luck and rested his injured hand in his robe. It was there he felt two vials of holy water. He also saw that brown furry thing creeping towards Brother Edward again. Brother Marcus had rushed up to stand with the other Brothers against the invaders. That thing assuredly was an abomination in the eyes of God, he thought. For all of the wrong mental reasons he made the right choice. "Begone from this place of God!" he thundered as he let fly with one of his vials of water. It hit and doused Taeg with its contents. The creature screamed as it scuttled away, its fur smoking from the contact. An acrid stench also came from the creature as it tore at itself, attempting to remove the substance from its fur. If it could have been more possible, Brother James had even more faith in the power of God…._

_Only 4 of the original cohort of soldiers were alive now, and one had been knocked senseless in the front of the monastery; the remainder were only so much charnel on the floor. That left 3 soldiers facing 4 monks, one of which was armed with a deadly black sword. Arthur had a cut in his side and Walter had sustained more injuries, though superficial. Marcus was pale but stolid in his stance. The soldier's leader and his remaining men backed away from the confrontation as the knight cursed them. "You are cowards and not worth what you were paid! At least you brought him to me though!" The knight moved forward in a menacing manner and raised their sword and shield._

_Brother Timothy waved the other Brothers back. "I will deal with her. Tend to those injured." He glowered at the knight. __"You DARE to intrude upon me in my demesne, DEFILER!" __The knight answered. __"You killed my brother and sister! Soon, you will join them! We will then RULE as we were meant to do!"__ The knight gestured to an area behind Brother Timothy. With a shriek, Taeg launched itself to land on the monks left shoulder, all claws, teeth and fur. It still smoked a little from the earlier assault, but that in no way slowed its frenzied attack. It bit into Brother Timothy's neck as the monk screamed and dropped his sword. Taeg knocked them to the floor as it continued to ravage its foe. Clydweth moved in with sword upraised. Yes, she thought, I will claim victory today…_

_Brother Walter surmised that the knight was a dangerous adversary, though he had not yet seen them fight. Despite Brother Timothy's statement, he did not tend to the other monks. He did not feel he was needed for that purpose. He saw how quickly things had changed when that brown furry thing attacked Brother Timothy and knocked him to the floor. He heard its snarls and Brother Timothy's screams. He also saw the knight stalk over to where they were with sword upraised to strike. He heard yet disavowed the strange language they were speaking. In his eyes though, all that concerned him was that even though life was never fair, nor was this travesty. It simply was not meet. Totally disregarding the danger this situation posed, he struck with his cudgel; what would have been a killing blow from the knight's sword was instead deflected into a used pew. The knight screamed something at him and their next blows were aimed at him. Soon, Walter was fighting for his life as sword and cudgel clashed yet again in a deadly dance…_

_If it gnaws off my head, it wins. He had forgotten about the furry little obscenity that oft tailed Clydweth. He was paying for his inattention as the beast savaged his neck. He could not bend his left arm far enough to get a grip on it, as encumbered as it was by his greave. He had lost his sword and now Clydweth was dodging in for a head-severing blow! He winced as the sword came down but heard something else intervene. It was a cudgel wielded by Brother Walter. Stop! She will kill you! But Brother Walter paid him no mind. He and the knight exchanged blow for blow as they fell away from him. He had to do something about Taeg or he was dead anyways. Freeing his right hand from the wreckage on the floor, he managed to get a grip on the back of Taeg's head. As quick and vicious as the creature was, it was no match for Brother Timothy's strength. By degrees, he pulled it away from the horrendous wound that it had made. With a last Herculean effort that cost himself some flesh and another scream, he had pulled Taeg away from his neck. Even as he did, the wound started to heal, though his robe was completely ruined from blood. Using all his strength, he catapulted Taeg away from him in a powerful arc. Taeg did not stop until it collided with a wall. It lay stunned only for a second, but that was long enough. A war cudgel knocked it across the floor into a pew. At Brother James' behest and pointing fingers, Marcus and Arthur assailed the bog beast, keeping up a constant flurry of blows. As such it was no longer in a position to attack Brother Timothy, who even now was healing his massive wound. He retrieved his sword…_

_They are too fast, Walter thought. He had landed some blows upon the knight, but their armor showed to be very good protection against his cudgel. Not so a monk robes in relation to a sword. Every bone inside him ached and the cudgel became harder and harder to wield. Even he was tiring. He had never confronted a foe such as this. He mumbled a paean to his god begging forgiveness for his sins as he blocked yet another flurry of blows. He did not notice the armored foot until it was too late. The painful kick knocked him off balance long enough so that a sword stroke relieved him of his cudgel. Without fear, he saw the sword aimed for a killing stroke…_

_No blow fell upon him, though. Instead a discordant bong assailed his hearing as the knight staggered away holding a hand to their armored chest. The armor was DENTED. Brother Timothy was back upon his feet, with no other mark of injury but a tattered robe crusted in blood. Walter retrieved his cudgel and staggered clear as the knight bore in against Brother Timothy._

_Clydweth fought with all the skill as she could muster. It was a coin toss whether she had used common sense in this assault though. Now she realized that her task she set to herself to complete, even with help, might be beyond even her. She faced a sword much more deadly than the one she wielded along with a foe possibly more skilled then she. His armored left arm was sufficient to block her blows but his sword had more length. A shield bash tactic was neutralized, along with what was left of her shield. The monk's sword sheared it into pieces that now lay upon the floor. The weight of her armor was now a liability to her as she also started to tire. The monk did not seem to tire. She only narrowly avoided a blow that shattered a discarded pew. His armored fist smashed her helm, making her head ring. Another blow injured her nose as well. Still she fought on, the image of her brother and sister fresh in her mind…_

_The other monks saw fit to get the hell out of the way when the knight joined battle with Brother Timothy. Brother Edward had already been transported out of the area. All that remained of the Brothers were Brother James and Walter. While Walter rested and brought up his cudgel in another guard position, Brother James was livid. Look at the gore and dead bodies and the damage this caused! The furry obscenity had already fled the building along with the last 3 of Clydweth's cohort, but it still offended him. As he watched the two combatants create even more wreckage, he kept a tight grip on the other vial of holy water. His eyes glanced at Brother Walter. Walter was in shock and somewhat in awe of what he was seeing, but he also had a grimness written across his features. Brother James moved over to Walter and they began to converse….they turned towards the fight in front of them with new resolve…._

_The havoc already dealt the area made footing rather difficult for the combatants, but still they fought. The monks robe was a total ruin, but so was the knight's armor, from dented breastplates to a partially caved in helm. Clydweth made a dodge and feint, trying to come in on the monks' right side to do some damage. Had she not stopped herself, she would have been dead. As it went, the monk was prepared for her attack. Instead of decapitating her though, his strike hooked the helm and ripped it free from the armor, such was the force of the blow. Her red hair spilled out over her blood-encrusted face. Baleful green eyes glared at Brother Timothy as her grimace of rage showed pointed teeth. The helm bonged across the floor and stood still. It was when she charged forward again that three things happened simultaneously. A harsh paean from Brother James and a vial of holy water smashed on Clydweth's face, drenching her. At the same time, a vicious blow from Walter's cudgel struck her in the same place. Simultaneously, a crackle of quickening fire from Brother Timothy also struck in the same area. The effect was horrific. Her face began to smoke and melt as she screamed in pain. In the place of her left eye of green and the socket surrounding it, there was only blackened, damaged flesh. It did not seem to want to heal. Instead of attacking again, she fled the monastery shrieking unholy oaths in several languages….._

_Brother Edward died from his wounds and was buried some days later. None of the other brothers would discuss what happened that night, including the peculiarity regarding their fellow brother._

**Monastery of Saint Timothy's 1657**

_Brother Timothy watched with some trepidation as the builders began to arrive. Through some generous donation of some sort, the monastery was being expanded and built even larger. Not only was this happening, but finally London took note of the attack many years earlier. The Lord Protector never claimed to be a king; Brother Timothy decided that he was more pragmatic then a gentrified royal fool. A Seneschal and a cohort of soldiers were placed near the monastery and could be rapidly called if needed. As things progressed, Brother Timothy went to London to see this Cromwell person. Still of the gentry, he thought, but more down to earth at least. He still had no tolerance of the simpering gentry that still swarmed the place. Though all the brothers involved in the debacle 50 years back were gone, it was as if something had been said or passed down the line; first, a watch had been set upon the artifacts by two of the soldier cohort with orders to let no one near them. The wreckage of long ago had been cleared from the area of the conflagration, but none of the brothers were allowed back there anymore. As the remodeling progressed, monsignor quarters were constructed separate from the other Monks…in the remains of the rearward room. It included an office area with some sturdy cases. The alleged holy artifacts disappeared one day to rest in one of the casements that were built. Brother Timothy did not really lament that though; there had been enough killing done with that instrument of doom. He also decided that he did not need to see __any more of the wide world of humanity; their vicious ignorance and fell stupidity were simply more then he could take….._


	26. Chapter 25

Clydweth had showered off all the grime she had upon her. It vastly improved upon her looks if you ignored the savage gleam in her one remaining eye. Her return to reality also caused some other changes. She had regained her sense of purpose. Before the dawn broke upon her dwelling, she was far, far away from it with Taeg in tow. She had discovered that she could converse with it in Eldritch speech, and that sufficed until she arrived where Taeg led her. Upon her arrival near the Gdansk area, a group of mortals and immortals accosted her and led her to a house that was a far cry from her former dwelling. There, she was outfitted with a sword and shield as was her due and a new set of armor. She saw some people talking on a telephone, but she was not able to hear what they were saying. Possibly from the telephone conversations, they made something of haste in preparing her for departure. She saw a newspaper with a picture of her there stating that she was wanted for questioning for some gruesome murders. She smirked at the article, but her companions took their job dead seriously. In the dead of night she was smuggled aboard a ship headed to England. She clutched her sword in a hard grip as she knew where she would be going. Yes, she knew where she would be going. Something called to her, something she could not yet define. It made her uneasy despite her sense of purpose….

**Paris, France**

Duncan wasted no time once he was out on the streets. He systematically eliminated all the places Dawson could be; the people he knew were also asked for its whereabouts. Duncan came empty. He began to get tense in outer feature from the frustration. _Where in hell is he,_ he thought. He had a seat on a bench as he mulled some things over in his mind. There had to be some reason for everything he knew to be spinning out of control as it had in the past weeks. Battles out in the open, watcher deaths as well as immortals; if this did not come to a halt, then their secret would be exposed if it had not already. He relaxed for a second or at least he tried. The wail of sirens in the background had increased dramatically in the last few moments. Whatever had happened, it was no small matter. It seemed that gendarmes were all over the place on their way to a certain part of the city. Wasn't that a fire he could dimly perceive in the distance? He now smelled smoke…and something else. It was a charnel stench of burnt flesh, enough to make him a bit queasy. It was then he heard a scream behind him from some distance. He had come prepared this night as he had many other nights. He was wearing his trench coat for warmth, but it also was suitable to hide his katana. Almost without thinking, he got up and trotted towards where he first heard the scream, a woman's scream…..

He did not have to go too far before he found the source. A woman was backed against a wall holding something in her hand. She was being circled by 3 men all holding swords. Another male was face down on the pavement in a pool of blood. The familiar tingle washed over Duncan; his sword snapped out to a guard position. He then smelled the reek of alcohol.

"What will we do with her," one of the three males spoke. "We were told to kill any that we find, weren't we?" The second one then spoke. "They didn't say about any of them being armed though. We killed the one, but you want to get shot by that?" The woman in question facing them had a look of fear upon her visage, but it also was suffused by rage. It took both of her hands to hold the pistol due to its size, but her grip was steady for the moment. She had a gash on her arm which still slowly bled, but it was as it did not exist. She screamed at them. "You killed Pierre for no reason. I know WHAT you are and one way or another I will see you DESPATCHED! You will DIE!"

The third one made a feint at the woman with his sword and jumped back with a laugh as she pointed her weapon at him.

"If we all rush her, she may get one, but we will kill her! Does that sound like a plan?" The third one took a healthy slug from a bottle of wine he held. He was too inebriated to even sense Duncan as Duncan walked up behind him and knocked the sword out of his grip. Then Duncan kicked the thug to the ground, the breaking wine bottle seeming to snap the other two out of their seeming stupor. "What in hell are you doing?" Duncan had his sword in an attack position while he was doing his best to keep at least the three sword wielders in his sight. There had only been one time he had faced two immortals at once; to save his own head, he jumped off a bridge after he beheaded one of the two. He was hoping that these three were not looking for a real fight, as drunk as they were.

"What in hell is it to you anyways, longhair?"

The first one's belligerence was well fueled by alcohol. He raised his sword in a menacing fashion and swung it at Duncan. A quick parry and another kick sent the second assailant to the ground, leaving only one standing.

"What are you doing attacking her with swords? I know what you are, but it is against the rules!"

He stood facing the standing assailant who suddenly realized what Duncan was. "Hey guys, he is another one like us! If that's true, you should be helping us off this bitch here!"

"Why would I do that? She is no threat to me. I advise you to take yourselves away from here before there is a _fatal_ misunderstanding."

To get his point across, Duncan struck with his sword upon the standing assailant's weapon, knocking it to the side. A third kick from Duncan staggered the thug. "Let's get from here!" The standing one said as he aided his friends to their feet. The other two picked up their swords and all three staggered off down the street, mouthing a stream of verbal invective at Duncan and the woman. Duncan turned to the woman, but realized that she had not lowered her pistol. It was aimed at his chest. "Why did they kill Pierre? He was only doing what he was supposed to do, and they stabbed him in the back with a sword. So, what now? You here to finish the job they started? I will despatch all of you!"

"I do not mean you any harm. I heard your scream and happened upon them here. I am putting away my sword." Duncan did so then leaned down to inspect Pierre. He was dead. Duncan arose to his feet, painfully aware that the woman still had the pistol pointed at him. Without directly looking at her, Duncan spoke. "You have a cut on your arm, and unless you want to talk to the gendarmes, it might be a good idea if we left." There was no reaction from the woman; the pistol still pointed in Duncan's direction.

"Suit it yourself then; I have things to do still." At that, Duncan turned and started to walk away.

"Wait," she said. "Are you one of them as well?"

"I am—"Duncan stopped in midspeech. _Despatched?_ He lifted the dead man's right arm. The watcher sigil was easy enough to spot. "Are you also a Watcher?" He glanced at her right arm. Sure enough, she had the mark. "How did they know who you were?" She had finally lowered the pistol. "They saw Pierre writing down information. One of them ran him through. The rest you know. How come you did not attack me as well?"

"There was already one Watcher-Immortal war, we do not need another. I don't know what's going on, at least not all of it. I need to find another watcher; he may have additional information regarding this mess. Do you know where Dawson is? It is extremely important that I find him!"

The woman now walked beside him; she had removed a kerchief and had wrapped it around her wound. Even though her face had some aspects of shock, she still seemed to be of a level headed sort. There still was a deadly glint in her eyes. "Who would need to know where he is?"

"I am Duncan McLeod."

At that, the woman gasped. "I know who you are. Dawson talks about you all the time. The Paris Cell was attacked a few days ago and it went to ground. She looked upon the verge of tears. "Pierre was a Watcher to the end. He refused to shirk his duty. Look what it got him!"

Duncan made as if to hug her, but thought better of it. "I need to talk to Dawson, wherever he is. Do you know where I can find him?"

"What sort of information? The Paris attack killed two of our senior members."

"I can't really say at this time. What I have to say only Dawson would be able to take in stride. It may be the only way another war can be prevented."

The woman paused, appraising Duncan with her eyes. "I will contact who I can and see what I can do. I owe you for saving me back there, but I make no guarantees. Too many of us have died already in recent weeks." Duncan wrote down his cell number and gave it to her. "I suppose that is the best you can do then. Call me if you are able to find anything out."

Duncan walked with her until he saw a clinic up ahead. He left her as she entered. He realized then he never got her name. The sight that met his eyes in the waiting room made him queasy. It was a fully packed area with all manners of injuries. _Why does it always have to be man hurting and killing man? Why can't they rise above their vicious, greedy selves more often? _He did not have to answer that question, because he already knew most of the answer. It had taken him more than a lifetime to find the answer, with a lot of pain and remorse along the way…..

**Area of Paris, France 1845**

"Good morning to you Duncan! It looks like it will be another beautiful day today."

"Good Morning, Darius."

Duncan could not help but smile at Darius' good cheer. He usually was not in such good spirits all things considered. Darius was a friend and a good one at that. He remembered how he first met Darius during the aftermath of Waterloo. Duncan was ready to fight upon recognizing a fellow immortal, but Darius was not looking for a fight. Darius had not fought with anyone, immortal or otherwise, for near two millennia. At one time he was the general of an army that fought and bled and died, but no more. It was here, inside his church, where Duncan could truly let down his guard and be himself. He had arrived a few days ago, dirty and bloodied, carrying a comrade in arms. Duncan's friend had died and he was buried there on the church grounds. Duncan did not weep too long though. Already his mind plotted a way to even the score by any means he could produce. He was by the freshly turned grave when Darius approached him. Darius' features were essentially unremarkable, from an average build to a light brown tonsure. His eyes had the look of age, but they also were kindly in their view. Duncan's eyes even now burned with barely constrained fury as he glowered at the grave. Darius stood beside Duncan also staring at the grave.

"So what will you do now, Duncan? I can see by your gaze that it is probably something of which I would not approve."

"They had no reason or no right to kill him. He did nothing to provoke them! Even now, they are probably laughing about it!"

Darius sighed. "You know enough of mortals so that you know many do not need reason to commit violence against their fellow man. How long can you feel that it is only your burden to bear?"

"They will not be laughing when I catch up to them! I will pay those bastards back in their own coin! How in hell can you be so peaceful regarding a matter like this, Darius?"

"It took a lot of time and dwelling upon my thoughts and actions. I decided that there was a time when I needed to let go of the desire to repay ruin for ruin. It was a hard lesson to learn."

"You make it sound so easy; I just put on a monks' robe and the desire for revenge just goes away? I do not see how I can do that."

Darius' usually kind voice now had a stern quality to it. "You should know by now that the clothing does not make the person inside. Dominic and Benedict, though sanctified, were not men of peace! All that I am saying is what good will revenge do you? Will it bring back your friend? Or will it simply beget more and deadlier violence?"

"They won't be killing anyone else after they are dead. There is some good of that, isn't there?" Duncan's steely gaze had abated slightly.

"That is the question you must ask yourself. In the end, man is responsible for his actions and the consequences that go with them. It is also his free will that allows some to entrust their selves to God and others to spurn the selfsame concept. I know that you feel pain and loss when this happens, yet you open yourself to a lot of that by your own actions."

"Sometimes you have to take a stand for what you believe. I was at Culloden; I was at Waterloo. I felt that somehow I could make a difference!"

Darius sighed. "You know that Waterloo will not be the end of it. Sooner or later, the mortals will find another excuse to shed blood and litter the fields with the fallen. Will you be there as well? Will you open yourself to yet more needless pain and suffering? I was there at one time; the killing fields littered with the charnel stench of the dying, their bloated bodies a feast for the carrion. I finally decided that I could not take anymore. There is only so much torment anyone can handle, immortals included. If you feel that you must be a part of their lives, try to do so without exposing yourself to too much of their suffering. To do so will only make you cold inside from the grief. There will be no amount of warmth that will change you once that happens." At this point, Darius turned on his heel and left, leaving Duncan alone by the grave….

Duncan was jarred from his reverie by the chime of his phone. He flipped it open so quickly he almost dropped it. "Hello."

"Dawson is in NYC. Where he is I do not know. That is the best I can do." The phone went dead. A redial got an invalid number. Duncan headed back to his home. It looked like he was headed to the USA. A few extra Euros got him a nonstop leaving tomorrow morning. Amanda had nothing new to report, so he went to bed after packing a suitcase. He placed his Katana in a carry-on container that he hoped would be suitable for the new security protocols at the airports.

**Paris, France Present Day**

The five men arrived in Paris with no problems. Unless you knew specifically who they were, you would not have had any clue. Their dress, demeanor, their very images were groomed to provide the most anonymity as possible. Once they were ensconced at their lodgings and had a rental car in tow, they quickly went to work. A non-descript parcel with papal seals on it provided the men with 9mm pistols and silencers, disposable cell phones and fake identification. They had no problem finding their target at his location. All they had to do now was stake out the residence and wait. Two of them carried out this task while the other three rested. They were very patient. In their hearts, God would grant them success in their mission.

**New York City**

Dougal arrived in NYC with not too many issues. He was delayed slightly in the UK due to over zealous security at the airport there, but it all got ironed out. He did not lose anytime either upon landing. In a relatively short time, he had no less then 30 others awaiting his orders in the city. He had no problem with locating his target due to yet more betrayal among the Watcher ranks. He had every intention of exterminating this group of watchers as well as retrieving whatever the hell it was that Laskey sent. He could hazard a guess as to what that was. Failure to destroy or retrieve that information meant at least exposure; exposure would also be the worst case as well. _Retrieve, destroy, kill._ He had no reason to think anything could go wrong. He figured that these people would be as easy to handle as Laskey. Dougal never thought to consider the possibility of failure; he considered himself to be better then any mortal or immortal…..

.

Duncan awoke early in the morning. As he made to get out of bed, he discovered Amanda sleeping beside him. After showering and shaving, he sat down for a quick breakfast. He retrieved a paper left on his door step and opened it up on the table to read. First though, he made damn sure that the items Amanda had were locked away in a sturdy cabinet. It was impossible to not see the front page headline:

**Sword wielding maniac kills over 30!**

A gruesome sight beheld the police upon arrival at a scene of utter carnage. Burnt out buildings and cars and numerous corpses littered a several block area….

Duncan only hastily skimmed over the rest of the story, most of which comprised official statements and eyewitnesses seeking their 15 minutes of fame. It was the picture they had of someone wanted for questioning that next caught his eye. _Why am I not surprised,_ he thought. It was the monk he had met in the graveyard or someone that looked just like them. The more he thought about it, the more he became ill. He tossed the paper aside, swearing as he did so. _If we become exposed, there assuredly will be hell to pay. _How in hell could he stop this? Kill the monk? It is not only them causing this trouble; one beheading would not solve the problem. Somehow, the root of the problem had to be addressed, but first the problem had to be defined. Duncan knew there would be no easy answer. He checked in on Amanda. She was still lying down, but she was awake. "Where are we going, Duncan?" She smiled at him. "We are not going anywhere. I am going to New York to try and find Dawson." "Why can't I go along? It has been rather boring here." "You need to stay here and not only keep an eye on Gwyneth, but also this dwelling and the things you found. "Why haven't we looked at those books at least? They may give us some more answers." "The man that was here earlier opened them, but all that was in it were some indecipherable runes. I need to have your word that you will not touch them. The page edges of them are poisoned. Hopefully I can find Dawson there; once that is done we can figure out what to do." He kissed and hugged Amanda. "This is no longer a game. That bastard in a monks robe may have killed a lot of people last night. Stay put…and protect yourself." Amanda arose from where she was sleeping and retrieved the paper. "I told you he was dangerous, Duncan. You had best protect yourself as well." At that, Duncan left to catch his plane.

Duncan set off at a brisk walk to his destination. There was no point in taking a car to the airport. Mass transit in Paris was as close to a science as there could be; not only was there an excellent bus system, but there was The Metro as well. By leaving a bit earlier then needed for his flight, he had time once more to ruminate over what information he had gleaned. Ap Hwywd was a most peculiar name, seeing as it was a clan delineation name that would have been Welsh. When had they stopped using those? He did not recall that sort of naming even when the House of Gwynedd rose up against the crown in the 14th century. Ap Anon was as peculiar of a name as well. He set that aside for the moment as being unsolvable, and then considered other aspects of this puzzle. Who was that monk? He said he had worn his robes for 1400 years or so, but that meant that he was not always a monk. Then who in hell was he? Whoever he was, he had promised to kill Gwyneth at the first opportunity, It was not a threat; it was a promise. Anyone who would kill 30 people at one fell moment could easily kill one….or more. He set that aside as well. Gwyneth was red haired and blue eyed; she was nearly a dead ringer for the one Amanda killed. _And who almost killed her in return._ There were others with the same hair and a green eye color, but he saw only another dead end. _This needs to be solved before everything goes to hell at breakneck speed._ Duncan was jostled out of his train of thought by a minor collision between him and a female. He apologized and excused himself before continuing on his way. It was a pleasant day, so Duncan was not in too much of a hurry to catch a ride. Had he not collided with the lady, he never would have seen the two people following him at a discreet distance. His rather neutral state of mind clouded over with self-preservation skills and a curiosity as to who was tailing him and why. Furthermore, it looked like he was being corralled down the street, probably to a specific interception point. This told him that these people were probably professionals. In the space of a few more steps, Duncan became not just the prey, but a predator as well. Though it seemed that he still was maintaining a leisurely pace, he was now on the lookout for anything that could be to his advantage.

"The target is mobile! I repeat the target is mobile!" Brother Leon spoke as quietly as he could. Brother Sebastian was only a few paces away. They started following Duncan as soon as he left his home. All was going well until Sebastian was spotted by their quarry. The two still followed him but they kept in constant contact with the other three. At this time, the five agents were trying to work out an interception point suitable for the task at hand. Though they optimistically hoped that the target would simply hand over what they sought, they realistically expected reluctance or worse from the target. Such were the imperfect creatures of god. It fell to them to make matters right. Had they not pursued their goal with such a monomaniacal intent, they would have been better prepared for another danger about to assail them. The two on foot saw the car with the other three. Slowly and inexorably, they closed in upon their target.

Brother Timothy awoke in the early morning hours with a pounding headache. Even as he arose from where he slept, the stench of what covered his robe assailed his nostrils. Ignoring the pounding in his head, he immediately took steps to make his dress more presentable. The water in the shower stall ran pink for several minutes. He discarded his soiled underclothing for a fresh set after he had showered himself off. It was a good fifteen minutes under the water before the dried blood and other detritus went into the drain. The pounding of the water from the pipe made most of the headache disappear. Next, he cleaned his sword the best he could under the circumstances. _What in hell did you do! _His mind screamed at him in silent reproach. _I defended myself against ones they sent after me. What was I supposed to do? You KILLED as many as 30 people last night!_ That was a fact he could not ignore. He needed to get the hell out of here as soon as possible. He needed to get the hell out of Paris as well. The confrontation with Bronwyn was not of any real consequence, there was essentially no evidence of that fight. This was different; it had been a running battle all the way to nearly where he was staying. There would be hundreds of witnesses. He packed up the few things he had with him. The robe looked at least wearable now, but he would be in trouble if any tests were run on it. He had no way to wash it at hand. The first thing he did was to pull the hood over his head. The second thing he needed to do was assess the damage. Then third was to get the hell out of here as quietly as possible. He wasted no time in heading downstairs to turn in his room key to the proprietor. A morning newspaper rested in disarray on a chair in the lobby. He did not need to read too far on the front page to see that he was in some deep shit. The picture with the story was of him; even with the graininess of newsprint, it was definitely him. He did not notice the proprietor until they spoke.

"You are done with your stay here, monsieur?"

"Yes, I am," Brother Timothy spoke. "Here is your key." Brother Timothy turned to leave, but a hand fell upon his right arm. His right arm contracted at the touch, cords of muscle hardening in a prelude to an attack, but the proprietor spoke again. "That is an interesting picture in the paper, Monk. It looks a lot like you. Part of me wants to ask what the hell is going on, but another part of me says it might not be profitable."

"Perhaps it is wise to listen to that part then, is it not? What is it you want? Money to stay quiet?"

"Actually it does pique my interest as to why a man of the cloth such as you would behave in a way contrary to God, but I am of a more pragmatic sort. I only wish to see you long gone from here; if the gendarmes find you here, I lose the income from this place for who knows how long. If you are not here, then I lose no income."

Brother Timothy shrugged off the proprietor's hand as he stepped away. "If that is the case, then you know the most inconspicuous way out of here. Show it to me and I will leave." Brother Timothy pulled out a 50 Euro note and stuffed it into the proprietor's pocket. Only a few moments later, he was headed up a foul smelling service alley out to the street. He was fortunate that he missed his stop last night; the police were searching south of where he now was. It still would not be a good idea to tempt fate though. He stayed hooded as he headed north, doing his best not to call attention to himself. He found several others dressed as he was. It was no real problem to join the procession.

Brother Leon and Brother Sebastian no longer made to hide themselves from Duncan. First, he had already seen them, and second, the other 3 were very close by. Soon, Leon thought, they would have their target in hand. They crossed a rather large thoroughfare, and then shortly later they crossed another one. Their sedate walk picked up in pace as they passed a procession of monks. "Greetings, Brothers," Leon said by habit as he passed them. He quickly looked around, but could not find the target. He called Brother Sebastian on his cell. "Sebastian, I cannot find the targ—." Leon felt a blow to the side of his head as his feet were swept out from beneath him. He hit the pavement hard, hard enough to stun him for a moment. A gold medallion he was wearing fell out from beneath his shirt and clinked upon the pavement. The noise caused one of the hooded monks to turn at the sound and look upon the medallion….

Centuries of life allowed Duncan to keep a cool head regarding this situation. In addition to the two that were following him on foot, three more were in a car close by. That equaled five. Five on one did not sound like beatable odds to him, so he had a plan for losing them. He headed quickly past a row of hooded monks and stepped around the corner and out of immediate sight. As soon as one of the ones following him appeared, Duncan struck. A punch to the head and a foot sweep dropped them in their tracks. Wasting no time, Duncan ducked into a store nearby then emerged from the rear of it, walking as fast as possible.

_Clink!_ The sound was so out of sorts with the other sounds in the area that Brother Timothy turned in the direction of the noise. Some male was sprawled on the pavement. A garish pendant on a gold chain was beside them. This was the one who had said greetings just a moment before. The pendant looked garish, but Brother Timothy was sure it was gold. Odd, it seemed there was Latin inscribed upon it around a picture of Jesus or some such. Dei….Defensor… Fidei. Suddenly, another male dressed exactly as the first one ran up and helped them to their feet. Odd, why did the first one greet them as Brothers? They did not look like Monks or other such. He pondered this puzzle as he kept walking along with the other monks.

"The target attacked Leon! We have lost the target! Leon is ok; he just had the wind knocked from him." Sebastian helped up Leon. As soon as Leon could move, the two trotted off, spreading out and coordinating with the three in the car. Soon, they had recovered their target, albeit this time they were more cautious.

The group of hooded monks decided to rest for a moment. One pulled out a bota full of water which he shared with the others using paper cups. Two of them peered at Brother Timothy. "Greetings, brother! Are you from one of the Dioceses in this area?"

"No, I am from one in the UK. I hope you do not mind me tagging along with you; it does cut down upon the stares and inane questions."

"No problem there; I fully empathize with you on that count. I am Brother Paul."

"I am Brother Timothy. Why did that oddly dressed person greet us as Brothers? I saw no monks robe upon him."

"That was probably one of the agents of the church. See, there is another one. I wonder how the first one fell?"

Brother Timothy paused for a second. "What do you means 'Agent of The Church?'"

"They are Defenders of the faith and such. We really do not have to worry. We are of the one true faith after all. They mean us no harm." Brother Paul and the other Monks began walking again. Though Brother Timothy was again following them, his mind roiled with the bitter taste of his fury. _Defensor Fidei! Yes, they are protectors of the true faith and its adherents…..unless of course, your definition of that differs with theirs…_

_**Basilica area near Rome, 1417**_

_He had no idea how long he stood in the drenching rain. His hood was down; the rain disguised his tears very well, though he had stopped crying a while ago. He was staring at a midden heap, as rank of one that could be found. He was not staring at the heap per se, but the five mutilated corpses that lay on top of it. The remnants of their robes showed that the five dead were also monks. They were monks no more. Between the five of them, he saw no shortage of missing or burnt limbs, missing eyes or ears, and possibly at least two emasculations. Now they lay in the midden heap, their bodies already starting to bloat. How did this happen, he thought. Part of him inside already knew the answer…._

_ It was a few months ago that this journey had started. Brother Lucien was a new member of the Monastery, fresh from Rome. He expounded greatly on the new Pope that had been installed; he had said this new Pope was liberal in dispensing absolutions and blessings. He had decided to take Brother Lucien into his confidence regarding a crucifix and writ that he had obtained some years before. Brother Lucien had contacted Rome and received good news in response, or so they said. If the cross and writ were returned, a rescindment would be issued nullifying the original writ. A trip to Rome would be necessary for seeing to the matter. Brother Timothy felt in high spirits at the time. After clearing the trip with the Monsignor using a different reason, he and Brother Lucien selected 5 other monks to come along on the trip. Brother Lucien said that it would benefit the Monastery and Rome as well; it was always good purpose to meet all who espoused the one true faith. Brother Timothy was not about to leave the Monastery unarmed though. By the time he and the others were set to depart on a 3 week trip to Rome, Brother Timothy had his sword and greave and his crossbow. The cross and writ he packed away carefully in a non-descript box. All the way down to Rome, Brother Lucien was very talkative. He readily reminded Brother Timothy that he was doing the right thing by god. Anytime Brother Lucien brought up the topic of the cross, Brother Timothy steered away from the topic. Brother Timothy was optimistic, but he had learned long ago to prepare for the worst….._

_ The worst had come to visit him in all of its glory. Five brother's tortured and killed, then tossed upon a midden heap to be food for who or whatever happened by. Why was I not with them? When they arrived in Rome, they were given decent accommodations. Brother Timothy had slept there upon arriving, but he found the bed too soft and overrun with lice and other such creatures. The next day, he set out to explore the city. He marveled at the art that was everywhere and the ancient and modern architecture. He had lost track of time and found a secluded place that was more to his liking. He had arisen from there and was in process of making his way back to the others. When he had arrived, it was to see five of his brothers being taken out under heavy guard by soldiers with odd hats and medallions upon their necks. Thankfully, he had not been spotted, so he watched from a place of observance. He heard some of what they said; apparently he and the other Monks were heretics and were to be dealt with in proper fashion. He only counted 5 though; there was no sign of Brother Lucien._

_ It was two days later he found them dead on the midden heap. The only thing it could have been was the cross and the writ. While part of him wept over the dead, another part of him screamed at him in his mind…you killed them as surely as if you tortured them yourself….they died because of you…He disposed of that chain of thought in a moment; there were things to be done. First, where was Brother Lucien? He was not among the dead here. Second, he needed to find out the truth of this matter; if it was not to his liking, someone was going to pay and pay dearly._

_ The second part proved to be the first thing verified. The Brother's had been interrogated about something; as to what Brother Timothy could not readily ascertain. A notice was posted looking for him as well. Finding out what happened to Brother Lucien took a bit more time, but his efforts were fruitful. The men in the funny hats and the gold medallions were agents of the church. They referred to themselves as Defensor Fidei. It was their job to root out heresy amongst the masses using any and every means at their disposal. When he observed Brother Lucien dressed in the same way, it took a visible effort not to exterminate him on the spot. There were too many around him though; attacking him now would only get me killed, he thought. Brother Timothy kept tabs on Brother Lucien the next few days to determine where he went and when. His patience was rewarded when he saw the Defensor Fidei drag off another unfortunate. Brother Lucien was with them. He followed them to a very plain looking building. They entered and he heard a lock close from the inside. He could hear the screaming despite the solid construction of the building._

_ Several hours later, the door opened. The unfortunate was carried out in 4 pieces and tossed upon a nearby midden heap. Just as the other Brothers were, he thought. The men laughed about the indecencies they had heaped upon their victim and left. So this is what befell the Brothers? Brother Timothy had a grim expression upon his visage._

_ The building was a place of torture. They must have been so smug in the fear they spread so as not to post a guard or bother locking the door. Inside, the place reeked of the horrors begat from men who were cruelly treated. The stench was overpowering, but Brother Timothy breathed through his mouth so as to stifle the gag reflex. Brother Lucien was one of the torturers; how had he come to be at the Monastery? It could not be coincidence, could it? He had every intention of finding out. It was a simple matter of having a message sent to Brother Lucien. In the message, he made as if to sound both scared and penitent….._

_ Brother Lucien read the message and was overjoyed. None of the other five Brothers knew anything of the location of the cross and writ. It was unfortunate that Brother Timothy had not been caught with the others, but now he would have Brother Timothy AND the items in his possession. He responded to the message with a place for them to meet; HIS place where he showed the heretics the true path to God._

_ Brother Timothy smiled. The meeting place was the same building he saw them using before for the last unfortunate. It was a simple matter to be there a little early and quickly sequester his self from immediate notice. He had the box with him as well….now all he had to do was wait for their arrival._

_ It was not long before he heard noises denoting entry into the area. The high pitched screams he also heard denoted yet another unfortunate. He was in luck. Brother Lucien was there with six others. Two of them had a rather attractive female in tow. The men guffawed at her pleadings as they tore what was left of her clothing off and dumped it in a pile. They next secured her to a table that also functioned as a rack. They only laughed at her cries for mercy. Brother Lucien appeared to be in charge. He gazed down at her as he spoke. "You have been brought here because you have been accused of fell craft of the witches' art! Confess your crime now and it will go easier for you! Only by espousing your belief in God will you be saved!"_

_ One of the others spoke. "Brother Lucien, did you not say for Brother Timothy to meet you here? Where do you suppose he could be?"_

_ "I don't know. Keep an eye on the door in case he chooses to knock." Brother Lucien turned to the female. "You will not confess your acts of witchcraft? We will then have to test your resolve by driving the dem—" _

_ **CLUNK!** _

_ Brother Lucien was cut short by the sound of something heavy hitting another table as it was dropped on to its surface. A hooded monk in a plain brown robe was suddenly standing there. The monk said not a word, but his expression was grim. "Who are you, Brother Lucien?"_

_ "Who are you to trespass upon my property!"_

_ "I am Brother Timothy, Brother Lucien. I have brought the cross and writ with me as well; that is, I brought what you have earned for your efforts." Brother Timothy made as if he was fearful. "I was interested about the Rescindment that was promised? And I have not been able to find our five other Brothers. Would you happen to know where they are?"_

_ Brother Lucien could not believe his luck! The heretic was here along with the cross and the writ. As subtly as he could, he gave hand messages to the six others to slowly spread out in preparation to capturing Brother Timothy. Now he had to stall for time. "Rescindments are a very serious matter, Brother Timothy. The Pope himself has to judge the merit of such a request. Even now, our Brothers are stating their case to him. As only a lowly minion of the church, I am not in a position to offer such myself. The return of the cross and writ will surely be in your favor though." Brother Lucien watched as one of the Defensor Fidei locked the door. No need for having this heretic escape. At last, the others were in position…or so he thought. Brother Lucien's tone suddenly changed from simpering to castigating in the blink of an eye. "The Pope would NEVER suffer the audience of a HERETIC as you! As a Defensor Fidei superior, I will carry out what ever edict is upon that writ! Seize him!" _

_ While two stood near the door, the other four rushed Brother Timothy. Brother Timothy did not move from where he stood; he was near the far wall, so had little fear of being surrounded. He calmly fired his small crossbow; as the first attacker fell, Brother Timothy uttered a name. "Brother Michael." He loaded and fired a second and third quarrel. "Brother Kenneth. Brother Terence." He fired another quarrel at near point blank range. As the Defensor Fidei fell, their face turning purple, he uttered another name. "Brother Geoffrey." This left only the two at the door. One of them fired a crossbow bolt that transpierced Brother Timothy's right shoulder. Unmindful of the pain, Brother Timothy fired another quarrel at the crossbowman. As they fell, he uttered the last name. "Brother Gabriel." The sixth one charged him with a long dagger. Brother Timothy knocked aside the blow then crushed their neck in his armored left hand. He disdainfully tossed the corpse to the floor. "You are a fell liar, Brother Lucien; I suppose you chose not to repent your action and chose instead to lie and masquerade as one of our brothers. That is an additional crime past murder as I see it." _

_ Brother Lucien's entire cohort lay dead on the ground. Brother Timothy unhooded himself and glowered at Brother Lucien. "You only brought six murderers with you; that was pretty stupid on your part." _

_ Brother Lucien was in shock. This heretic had killed six Defensor Fidei! He showed not one bit of penitence. Brother Lucien lunged at Brother Timothy. "You will PAY for their deaths, heretic!" Brother Lucien was brought up short by a armored left hand closing around his robe. "No I will not. You and yours will pay for the murder of five brothers who were penitent to god. I knew they were already dead. I saw the bodies." Brother Timothy laughed a cold icy laugh. "Though I optimistically decided to trust you, realistically I could not. You are mortal after all, Lucien. Mortals almost never act in good faith." Brother Timothy walked over to the box he had laid on the table. "I guess there will be no Rescindment; fine, then no cross and no writ either." He dumped out the boxes content upon the table. It contained some pebbles and some dirt. He had switched boxes before they arrived at Rome; the cross and writ could be easily retrieved regardless of circumstance. "Isn't that neat how that works Brother…Lucifer? Judas sold out for thirty pieces of silver, what was your price?" The crossbow bolt was paining him. "I am going to deal with you in a moment, Lucien. This crossbow bolt kind of hurts." Brother Timothy released his hold upon Brother Lucien before he reached around with his left hand and snapped the bolt, then drew out the other part. He cast both upon the ground at Brother Lucien's feet. He used a bit of his power to quickly heal the wound. Lucien jumped away, wide eyed and at a loss for words. Brother Timothy laughed at him. "Do not look so aghast, Brother Lucien; as much as you think you know, it turns out there is more you do not. You will be answering a number of questions for me, Brother Lucien. Lie to me even once, and you may learn there are some more barbarous then even Defensor Fidei."_

_ Brother Lucien was at a loss for words. First, his fellow agents had been killed by a Monk; said Monk had been armed with a heretical weapon. He knew that the quarrels were poisoned. The monk had extracted the crossbow bolt and now showed no ill effects from the wound. His racing mind came to a screeching halt when he felt a cold metal fist grab the front of his robe. "Who sent you to The Monastery of Saint Timothy?" Brother Lucien faced a monk whose features were suffused with rage barely kept in check. He did not answer right away; as a result, he felt his air supply being choked off by the Monks' grip. _

_ "There were rumors in the archives. The Council of Defensors wanted to know what happened to that cross!"_

_ "That was foolish of me trusting you. Since you already know my secret, I am going to tell you what happened to that cross, Brother Lucien. The Monastery of Saint Timothy was excommunicated by a writ. A papal cross was sent as a sign of authority to carry out the action. I killed them all and took both items." Brother Timothy smiled at Brother Lucien. "Yes, it was I who took the cross some centuries ago. You lied to me to my face about the fate of my five Brothers. I hold you and yours beneath contempt. You defend no faith except for what interpretation pays the most gold. You only murder innocents as you run around mad with power. Now you will do something to alleviate your most grave sin." Brother Timothy cast him aside as he searched for parchment and an inkwell. Brother Timothy began writing on the parchment._

This is to denote that:

Brother Michael

Brother Gabriel

Brother Kenneth

Brother Geoffrey

Brother Terence

Are penitent in the eyes of God and have done nothing wrong to offend the Creator

_ Brother Timothy looked at what he had written; it would do for the purpose for which he intended. His vengeance was only partially aimed at these Defensor Fidei present. He intended to send a message to the ones in charge of them, a message they would not dare ignore. If things worked out as he figured they would, this matter would be squelched with the most extreme prejudice. He placed the parchment and pen before Brother Lucien. "You will sign that and do so now!" _

_ Brother Lucien pushed away the parchment and pen and developed a sneer to his voice. "I will do no such thing, HERETIC! You are a profanity in the eyes of God, and he will surely judge you and send you to hell for your trespass!"_

_ Brother Timothy did not bother saying anything. Brother Timothy said not a word. He half drew his sword from its sheath. "You like the blade. Brother Lucien? I made it myself a long time ago." _

_ Brother Lucien looked at the sword and gasped, "That is the holy artifact from the Monastery!" "There is nothing holy about it, really. I crafted it myself to deal with my enemies. Now, my enemies include you and yours. I advise that you sign what I have written." Brother Lucien felt that he was a good judge of character; many were the ones he inquisitioned over the years. Suffice it to say, no one was ever declared innocent once he had a hold of them, at least while they were still alive. He stared at Brother Timothy. He saw sadness there, but he saw something else…something rather unnerving. He had sent the message to Brother Lucien, but he was waiting for him here. The more he concentrated upon Brother Timothy's visage, the more fearful he became. He sensed a grim sense of purpose, and a person that was no stranger to slaughter. He signed the parchment with a flourish and a laugh. "Here you are, for what little good it will do you. The church will know I signed this under duress, so it will mean nothing. They will hunt you down and kill you for what you have done here! What sort of heretic are you!" _

_ Brother Timothy was paying him no mind; he was too busy writing another document. A cold laugh came from him as he read what he had scribed. "You might like to read this one, Brother Lucien. I doubt that this message will be misinterpreted." _

_ Brother Lucien started reading the other parchment with a laugh, but as he ended his reading, his face was drained of color. "WHO are you?" Brother Lucien's paradigm had just taken an awful shift for the worse. He then made a penultimate mistake; he stared into Brother Timothy's eyes. Brother Timothy laughed; it was the sound of winter chill upon dead branches. _

_ "Usually about once every fifty or so years, Brother Lucien, I ask myself who I am and what I am. I have yet to get a useable answer. This has gone on over the millennia. I am sure your fellow Defensor Fidei will get this message. I intend for them to do so. It will be interesting if they change their butchering ways; for some reason, I doubt they will, unless their power is lessened. The more I see of mortal perfidy, the more I am for a secular sort of government. Imagine that, Brother Lucien, a government that governs with no input from the church, and a church that is divorced from government. Even then, I still think atrocities will occur. I have little overall faith in mortals. What do you say to that, Defensor?" _

_ Brother Lucien was mouthing a paean as he shook a cross at Brother Timothy. Brother Timothy shook his head as he arose. He only now noticed the woman strapped to the table. He cut her loose and tossed some clothing at her. "Dress and begone from here; better yet, try to leave this foul city, Any place that would suffer such as these is no place where man can be at peace." After she left, Brother Timothy looked at Brother Lucien one more time. He saw the vestiges of madness creeping into Brother Lucien's countenance. In between Latin paeans, Brother Lucien howled all sorts of obscenities at him. Brother Timothy shot him with his crossbow in the eye, pinning Lucien's head to a wall from the bolts force. "That was far more mercy then that which you showed my five Brothers. I in good conscience could not suffer you to live. So be it; let the stones fall where they may. We shall see how much common sense your cohort really possesses." He tacked the first piece of parchment to the table where a very dead Brother Lucien lay. He fastened the second piece to the end of the quarrel that had killed Brother Lucien. With a little patience, he got the door to lock from the inside while he was outside. With no further ado, he left Rome. He retrieved the cross and writ. Three weeks later, he was home. He made sure the five dead Brothers received recognition._

_ Due in part to their standing as much as what they represented, it was 2 weeks before some were brave enough to stand the stench of the dead in the building. The ones who were first to see the charnel remnants were sorely sickened. A Defensor Fidei superior was shown the parchments found there. Though he paid the first one no real mind, the second one caused him to lose color in his face. With a visibly shaking hand, he lowered the parchment. As Brother Timothy predicted, the matter was squelched…._


	27. Chapter 26

**Paris, France Present Day**

Until now, he thought. Brother Timothy cooled his rage with an iron resolve. Just because I saw two people that may be Defensor Fidei does not mean they are after me. Perhaps they were up to something else that did not concern him. Even though he still kept pace with the other Monks, he now was focusing his attention upon the two Defensor Fidei that he saw. Though he appeared calm on the outside, he was ready and prepared to act in whatever fashion needed as the situation presented. The watchers were now being watched.

Duncan was out of options as he saw them. His attempt to lose those following him only worked for a short time. They definitely were professionals; he was being corralled to a place somewhat off the main thoroughfares. Duncan had learned a lot over the centuries; he no longer spoiled for a fight most of the time. It was better to avoid confrontation if possible in most circumstances. He sighed and continued on his path, acting as if two people were not following him with grim intent. Soon enough, he reached the point he predicted. A car stopped and two people got out while a third remained seated. He did not have to turn around to know that two others were behind him. _Odd that they are all dressed alike. This could be interesting,_ Duncan thought. If it turned out to be a danger to his person, he could change plans if needed. _None of them are immortal. That is a good thing…I think._ The two on foot stopped about six feet behind him. Duncan turned to address them. "How may I help you, gentlemen. Why are you following me? And do not say you aren't."

One of the men on foot spoke. "You are Duncan McLeod. You are in possession of something that belongs to us. We want it back, immediately."

"And what might that be?

"You are in possession of a papal cross and a writ of some sort as we were informed. They belong to us. You will return them to us NOW! If not, there will be consequences." The Defensor Fidei opened his jacket enough so that Duncan could see the pistol in the holster.

"What makes you think I have anything of that sort? And if so, how do I know it is yours?"

"We are prepared to forgive what you did to Brother Leon earlier, but we are NOT leaving with out our property. How this happens is entirely up to you." Both Sebastian and Leon advanced until they were only 3 feet away. Duncan was no longer looking at them though. The group of monks had passed by a second ago, but one of them was headed towards him and the two Defensor Fidei!

Brother Timothy prided himself of not ever forgetting a face; where as names could be liquid and dynamic, faces largely stayed the same minus the ravages of age. The second thing he prided himself for was staying in shape all these years. As such, his reflexes, already on edge from sighting a possible enemy from long ago kicked into overdrive upon some incontrovertible facts that suddenly assailed him. Whoever these people were, they had someone cordoned off. _It's that MEDDLER! _ The second thing was what he was able to hear….a cross and a writ? Perhaps another one? BULLSHIT! As the line of monks walked along, Brother Timothy stalked over to where that meddler was and two of the identically dressed people.

Duncan had a feeling that something was not right here. The monk was hooded; as they walked over to where he was, he saw their pace quicken. They were silent not only in speech, but in movement. In a few seconds, the monk would be where he was, and the two facing him made no motion of recognizing his presence.

"This is our last time that we ask for that which was taken from us and belongs to us. That is, the last time we ask nicely." The Defensor Fidei made as to draw his pistol, but he was stopped short by an icy sounding voice behind him.

"The cross and the writ are mine, not yours."

The two Defensor Fidei whirled around to see from where the voice came. They were looking at a monk in a brown robe. The robe seemed to glint a little bit in what sun was present.

"Greetings, Brother! I would love to converse with you regarding the Church, but we are very busy at the moment."

"I can see that. You seek a papal cross and a writ of Excommunication. I will say again, they are mine. And it is debatable whether I consider you or yours to be my 'brothers'."

Sebastian and Leon were in momentary shock. How in hell did they know about these items? More importantly, who was this addressing them?

Sebastian spoke. "Items such as these belong to the church, not to individuals. Brother, do you not know that greed is a sin before God?"

"Are you Defensor Fidei? I consider them to be a living sin against God, murderous, ignorant, living heresy. That sin is more than any I could commit. The writ and Cross are mine, not yours. It will cost you to have them returned." The monk pulled at his left sleeve to make sure it played freely over his greave. The hand armor glinted in the sun. His expression that could be seen was rife with deadly intent or the possible promise of it.

_Oh SHIT! _Duncan thought. _That is the monk from the monastery! The one that chased Amanda!_ He definitely now knew something was not right. _He did NOT sense the monk at all! _His plans were drastically redrawn in his mind….get the hell out alive.

Sebastian's expression became cold and haughty. "You DARE castigate agents of the true faith! I want your name right now. Your transgression will NOT go unpunished!" Brother Leon stepped towards the monk with the intent of pulling down his hood. The next thing happened was Brother Leon screaming as his right arm was in the grip of a metal covered hand. The sound of the bones grating was audible over several feet. "You seem to have a shiny gold medallion under your shirt. I am going to take a closer look at it. What it says will determine whether you live or die this day." Brother Timothy reached in and pulled out the medallion. He had not been wrong. On one side there was a picture of Jesus Christ and the words Defensor Fidei Dei. On the other side was the visage of the current Pope. "You are agents of the church I see. That unfortunately will go ill for you." Brother Leon stopped screaming when the left hand released his arm. It started again but was cut off as Brother Timothy lifted him up with his right hand and threw him into their rental car. Brother Leon's body smashed the upper part of the windshield and dented the roof as he landed on the pavement behind him, out cold. Before Brother Sebastian could do a thing, Brother Timothy backhanded him with his armored left hand. Duncan could hear bones crack upon the impact. What in hell is happening! They are not even immortal. It did not seem to matter. The monk whirled around to face the three by the car, screaming out some Latin which simply by its tone was probably not something nice. Oblivious to Duncan, Brother Timothy stalked towards the remaining three by the car.

Duncan had a new idea: Get the hell out of here as fast as possible. The two that had followed him were no longer a threat, but the maniac monk was a new one. He had his sword in a case, so that was no use to him. _Time to flee,_ he thought. That was exemplified when the remaining three drew their pistols and opened fire.

"Kill that bastard! Then we will deal with the other one!" As one, they drew and opened fire. As they did so they saw the monk spin around and present his back to them. Instead of a dead assailant, their rounds either dimpled the robe and fell, or made weird sounds as they ricocheted off of his armored left hand. One or two shots caromed off of the pavement. The monk now faced front, but with his head bowed, he was fully covered in the robe. The Defensor Fidei ran out of bullets and had to reload. Before they could do so, hell was upon them. The monk had unhooded themselves, but only to draw a sword he carried on his back. The one Defensor in his car started snapping pictures one after another. Using the centrifugal force from another spin, Brother Timothy drew his sword and whipped it around using all the muscles in his right arm. The sword sheared through the rear windshield and continued up to the metal separating the front and back seats. As it went, Brother Brutus was only partially able to evade the slash. He received a major skull fracture from only a glancing blow of the blade. When Brother Timothy could not extract his sword fast enough, his extended armored hand came down on the rear door so hard the door crumpled and was partially torn from its mounts. With a screech of metal, his sword came free. The other two had ducked when they saw the sword coming at them. They were too much in shock to do very much anyways. Brother Timothy smashed one to the ground with a mule kick then kicked them in the ribs and head until they were silent. That left only one standing. The idiot rabbit punched him in the face. Brother Timothy dropped his sword with a clang, dislocated the shoulder connected to the offending hand and then slugged the last one full on in the chest. He heard ribs crack as they sank down to the ground as well.

_That robe is bullet proof! Look what his weapon did to that car! _Duncan was only shocked for a moment though. As quick as possible he backed away from the carnage the monk had wrought. He honestly wanted NO part of this. As he backed away, the monk snapped up his armored hand to point at him. "Do NOT think for a moment that this is over, youngling….not at all! Your turn will come soon….VERY soon!" Duncan quickly vacated the area and headed to the airport.

The car was a total ruin. Brother Brutus lolled limply on the smashed rear door, his head covered in blood. The only one still conscious was in a world of pain from his cracked ribs and dislocated shoulder. A small notebook had fallen on the ground somehow. Brother Timothy scooped it up and then borrowed a pen from the one still conscious.

Brother Svengaard was in a world of pain. His ribs hurt as well as his shoulder. One moment they were about to retrieve the cross and writ. Now, he and his brothers were all injured; some might even be dead. A sword? They had been attacked by someone with a _sword!_ Said sword wielded by someone in monastic robes who freely insulted their duty, not only in English, but in fluent Latin. Now the monk was writing something on the notepad he had found. The monk had finished writing and tossed the notepad on top of Brother Svengaard. "I guess this time, you and yours will probably live. Tell whoever that is in charge of you and yours that any further interference will result in you being exterminated. You will only get your property back when proper amends have been made." The monk picked up his sword and sheathed it and replaced his hood. He brought his armored fist down on the front section of the roof until it was crumpled down below the doors. Then he spun on his heel and left, muttering foul curses under his breath.

Duncan was seated in the airplane. It would be a long flight, but that was not what was on his mind. For the first time in a long time, he felt fear. Its bitter, metallic taste made him sick to his stomach. It took a number of katas and breathing exercises to calm his nerves. He had no problem getting his plane; he was allowed to keep his sword with him once he showed he was an antique dealer and had the right to keep it in his possession. _The monk said this was not over and that he would be coming for me soon enough. How in hell would he be able to fight someone like that? Dun_can went over in his mind what he had seen. _The monk carries one HELL of a sword. It looks as dark or darker then iron_ but it had sheared through the roof of that car like it was not there. What in hell was it if not iron then? The piece of armor was also odd. Duncan believed it covered the monks whole left arm. It was rather ingenious when you thought about it though. You could wield a two handed sword but still have a sort of a shield. That would be rather risky unless….the wielder was confident of its ability to deflect blows rather than shear off the arm. _What if it was made of the same material as the sword?_ That only meant further trouble then. That would mean something like a sword would not be able to cut through the armor. It was also hard to judge the monk's physique with the robe they wore, but if the size of that sword was any indication, the monk was assuredly not physically weak. _ A bulletproof robe? Was it Kevlar or some other sort of material?_ That could possibly mean the monk expected trouble from the get go. Despite his trepidations, the robe was a novel idea as well. That way the wearer would suffer few surprises, but his enemies surely would be surprised. Enough of that, Duncan thought. I will cross that bridge when I come to it. He needed to find Dawson as quickly as possible. He leaned back his seat to drift into a restless slumber.

**Near Bryn Alyn, Wrexham, Wales**

It was only two hours or so after Dhurgal had been driven off. By the cairn, a grating sound could be heard. Off in the distance, a group of punks could be heard noisily carousing. Slowly, by degrees, the cairn cover began to shift, a rather prodigious feat of strength considering the weight of the stone. Finally, after what seemed a long stretch of time, gravity worked its wonders and the cairn top slid down and over to rest against the cairn itself. A single figure quickly exited the cairn. They were tall and slender, with long hair. The figure scrabbled for something and used it to tie their hair back. They looked all around from their vantage point but saw no one. A gesture from them brought a second figure out of the cairn. By the glow of the moonlight, the second figure looked as stocky as the first one did slim. The second figure clutched a piece of cloth around them as they also scanned the area. The two both stepped away from the cairn, but not before they retrieved some other things from the cairn. The slender figure mounted a quiver of arrows with a bow and a graceful looking sword while the stocky one had a spear and a more ponderous sword.

The two kept to the shadows as they moved quickly away from the hillfort area. Suddenly, out of nothing at all, a peculiar conversation started. To someone listening, the conversation would have seemed to be in musical tones with a predictable regularity.

"Why are we awake now?" The stocky looking one trilled as they still looked around.

"I am not really sure why we did awake. It may have to do with that taint we smelled upon our exit? One of them was present here." The slender one was also looking around as they spoke. The both of them arrived at the fence that was the boundary of the hillfort. Off in the distance, they could see lights. Also, unlike the hillfort area, they could hear an undercurrent of sound. It was then that the moonlight highlighted the visages of the two who had left the cairn. Any modern day human would have done a double take at either of the two. The stockier one was definitely female, with all of the required appendages and such, but there were some striking differences. First was the odd but symmetric tattooing on her face, such as the row of dots that ran over her brows and terminated at the tops of her cheekbones. Her brow was very pronounced and her teeth, though they looked human, were larger; her front incisors were over a half inch wide while her canines were sharp and pronounced. She was heavy of chin as well and her chin line sort of sloped into her body. Her shoulders were broad and muscular; she would have been a physical match for essentially any modern human male. The only reason she looked relatively short was because her companion was very tall. Her name was Dactal. Though she looked generally human, if one used the term 'proto human' that would have been essentially correct. She was of the savage Pict tribes that once lived in the reaches of Scotland, but that had been long ago. The Picts were not able to adapt, so they were gone from the equation. Her companion was as equally unsettling, but not for any reason of bad looks. Actually, her companion could have been called ethereally beautiful, at least in the physical sense. Clywd Ip Hear'n could in no way be called human. He was well over six feet tall and slender, though by no means weak. His white blonde hair could almost be called gray, and it shone with a weird sheen even tied back into a pony tail. Wide, expressive eyes graced his visage, a well sculpted nose, and a slit of a mouth that seemed expressionless. No human would have had the purple eyes he possessed, though, or the definitely pointed ears. There was something missing, though; a human would have detected it soon enough. Though his eyes shone with the light of life, they possessed no real sort of emotion. Feelings to one as this were fleeting, there and gone in a moment. His people had faded away to myth and folk tales; such was the fate of the Daoine Na Sidhe.

"When did we decide to hide there? Oh, I remember. I wonder how well the Gwynedds fared in their quest for the throne. Well, if they are around, I suppose we will have to find out where they are."

"And what of Ardis? Is he around still?" Dactal said the name with no real pleasure. She followed the statement with a toothy grimace.

"That is something we will also need to ascertain, as well as how many of our enemies remain. That does remind me, no picking a fight with him. He is on our side, though he does make a poor companion at times."

"He slaughtered us en masse! He does not deserve your allegiance….or mine either."

"Perhaps you are right; since at least one of them is still around, he has not fulfilled his obligation. Perhaps he is not still alive. Now, as I recall," Clywd reached into a pouch he had and extracted a coin. "You will need to be silent while I hopefully find the owner or issuer of this. We cannot just go out and seek Ardis; I am guessing things may have changed." The two spoke no more until they reached their destination. "This is the place we need to be for the moment. It has changed a lot." Though it was late, there were people up at the inn playing cribbage. The surprise of the players was wiped away when Clywd presented the coin to them. Clywd sighed. Where are you Ardis and why have you not completed your task?

**Paris, France**

Brother Timothy breathed a sigh of relief once he was gone from Paris, and a bigger one when he crossed the channel. He would not be going back to Paris anytime soon; he had caused too much damage while there._Was I fully to blame for that?_ They provoked me; they got what they deserved. The fact of the matter was, he had not really accomplished much. He left over 30 dead and several injured. Confronting those Defensor Fidei may not have been the smartest idea either. _Old enmities are never that soon forgotten._ He put it all from his mind as he fell into slumber….

It was like a stabbing knife in its suddenness, though without much pain. He was speechless for a moment as he felt….something..wash over him. As quickly as it appeared, it faded away, leaving behind a unpleasant feeling across his being. He looked out upon the countryside of England. It was still way before dawn. What had happened, he thought. He was fully awake now; the signs of slumber had abated. He tried to sense not only what had happened, but _why _and _where_ as well. Part of him felt pulled to the west of where he was. He knew what that was; sooner or later, he would be going back there. There was no way to avoid it. But there was something else as well. Something..not quite…_human?_ That something was north and west of here….Wales. He knew its olden name, but saw no need to use it. Then he _knew_ what it was. It had to be him! Wales would be a perfect spot for him to hide. Now he was no longer hidden. Brother Timothy now had a definite purpose: He needed to find them before his enemies did; as mistrustful as he was of Clywd, an ally was an ally after all. At the next stop, he got a transfer to a train headed up to northern Wales…

** New York City**

Duncan lost no time in starting his search, even if jet lag was taking its toll. As soon as he was set up in his room, he took a nap for a few hours. Feeling refreshed enough afterwards, he collected his sword, put on his coat and headed out into New York City. Though NYC was larger then Paris, that was not its only difference. NYC seemed to have more energy and freedom then Paris; it was as if there were less constraint and more freedom here. _I bet not so much since September 11, though._ Duncan caught a cab and then began his search. Dawson was not around any of his usual haunts. Dawson's cell phone was still offline as well. Duncan started to get disgusted. Here he had some valuable information to give, and Dawson was nowhere to be found. Maybe I need to approach this matter another way, he thought. As he walked the streets, seemingly oblivious to the things happening around him, Duncan was actually quite aware of his surroundings. Soon enough, he hit possible pay dirt. Two people were tailing him; both had rather grim expressions on their faces. Duncan decided not to worry about it this time; what was more important was that he achieved his objective. He deliberately wandered off on a sparsely populated side street then waited in the shadows for the two men. Sure enough, they wandered by, scanning everywhere for their quarry. Duncan stood in plain sight of the two on purpose. He then proceeded to walk towards them in a non threatening fashion, though he kept his right hand upon his sword. _Good. They are not immortal_. He smiled at them as he stopped about six feet away. The two had confused expressions upon their faces; their quarry was supposed to ditch them, not walk up in a neutral fashion. Duncan spoke first.

"It is a nice evening out tonight. I know you are following me, but at this time, I do not care."

"Why should we even give a shit how you feel, freak? We are watching as many of you assholes as we can right now." Once their confusion passed, the two males had rather displeased expressions on their faces.

"Freaks…oh well, I have been called worse." Duncan was quick enough to see the mark on one of the men's wrist before they deliberately tried to hide it from him. "I need to talk to Dawson. I know he is here, but he seems to be well hidden. Can you—"

"Right! We are going to expose him to the likes of you? There are quite a few of us who think your kind started another war. We would assuredly be better off with out your kind around." The second one gave him the bird for emphasis.

Duncan did his best to calm himself. It was these sorts of asshole watchers he could not stand; also, it was just this type of watcher who at other times he would enjoy pummeling. "That is not very nice. I have information about what is possibly going on. No immortal started a war; at least no one of which we are aware. I need to speak with Dawson!"

The two men approached in a belligerent fashion. "No, I think we will speak to you, asshole!" While the speaker pulled out a heavy telescoping baton, the other one spoke into a cell phone, put it away and pulled out a flechette pistol, silent but effective.

"I am NOT here to fight you!" The man struck with the baton on Duncan's leg and it hurt. Centuries of training and conflict made Duncan into high gear. He did not want to hurt them, so he let go of his sword. It clattered upon the pavement. Duncan winced at the sound, but it could not be helped. He had no problem disarming the man with the baton, though he took two more hits from it. When a flechette whizzed by his head, he got mad. He fell into a combat roll to take himself out of the line of fire, and then lunged for the pistol holder. He disarmed him and threw him to the pavement. The pistol wielder looked up in fear at a fist ready to strike the life from him. Duncan kicked the pistol away in disgust. "Listen closely, asshole! I did not come here to fight you; I am only here to stop all hell from breaking loose." Duncan took a card out of his pocket and placed it in the watchers coat pocket. "If you can pull your heads out of your asses long enough, call me at that number. I have information that Dawson and ALL of you need to know!" Duncan left the two men there nursing their wounds and headed back to his hotel. He had just finished showering when his phone chimed.

"This is McLeod"

"I would hope so; after all, you did give me a card."

Duncan waited for a moment in hopes the caller would speak again. They did. "A bit sorry about that confrontation. My cousin is wounded and my compatriot's brother is dead. We are told that you are good on your word. You have five minutes to convince me you are on the level."

"What about Dawson—"

"It started 10 seconds ago, my friend."

Duncan exhaled a deep breath and stated what information he had gleaned.

It was an hour or two before dawn, but the group of people were ready to roll. It was just a matter of waiting for their leader to get up from slumber. Dougal Ap Hwywd was in not too much of a hurry. He figured that the longer he waited, the more watchers would be there, making for a lot more dead watchers. He had 26 people ready to go; only 6 were immortal, but the other 20 looked very capable. He yawned, his pointed teeth a pearly white. He was hungry, but he would wait to eat. He wanted nothing but the finest repast for himself. He chortled to himself; he still on occasion could be amazed at the greed and stupidity of these mortals. What did he care about money, anyways? For mortals, that was in essence the opposite. Everyone assuredly had their price. That was also a good thing; it would make this task easier. Soon, this matter would be rectified…or so he thought.

"Well, McLeod, you just may have piqued our interest. That is an interesting tale you tell, anyways."

"It is the truth!"

"Calm the hell down. You could have killed us there, but you didn't. That does count for something. But, if we are going to trust you, you are going to trust us. We take you to him. You have a blindfold on. You have no weapons."

"Then we have a problem. I am not leaving here with out my sword." Duncan hung up the phone and waited. He did not have to wait long. "This is MacLeod"

"You promise that you will co-operate?"

"Unless I am threatened directly, you will have no problem."

"There will be a car waiting for you near where you are staying. Look for a black Expedition."

"Okay." The line went dead. Duncan had possibly achieved his stated goal. He only hoped it was not too late. Despite his reservations, he had to look at this situation from their point of view. Watchers had been attacked and killed. Immortals were involved in the deaths. He sighed as he got ready.

Dawn creased the sky as a trio of SUVs arrived at the Watcher cell location. The building looked nondescript. It looked no different then the other living complex buildings beside it. That was how it was intended to be. The first floor looked just like apartments because they actually were apartments. The firepower on this level was formidable, but very well hidden. The fourth and fifth floors were also unremarkable. The top floor had gardened terraces and inhabitants. Each inhabitant was either a watcher or a guard though. What they actually guarded was the third floor. If someone entered the first floor, they had to run a gauntlet of IR devices, metal detectors and grim faced people. The elevator automatically stopped at the second floor; the second floor lobby was a barricaded half circle. Behind the barricade were several guards and assorted weapons. Only after passing muster there did the elevator go to the third floor. This level was not a cluster of apartments. It had been modified and radically retrofitted to be a command center. No less then forty high end workstations were present, along with a server farm located approximately in the center of the floor. Dawson, Paddy and six guards arrived on the third floor. The guards took places facing the elevator door and two stairwell entrances. Dawson and Paddy took seats by a workstation. "Get what you need done as quickly as possible." Paddy said. "Is this workstation secured from the rest of the network as I asked?" A technician replied. "Yes it is. It is set to go." Dawson extracted the 3 CDs and repeated the decryption steps he did before. The warning came up regarding additional encryption. Dawson had commandeered a CD tower so that he could have simultaneous access to all three CDs. A CD and a data copy command had failed. He called up a command window and entered the command for the hardware decryption to commence. The command window went blank for a second then showed only the word 'decrypting….' "Now we will have to wait, Paddy." "There is no way to hurry the blasted thing up?" "That's the drawback of decent security measures. Of course, our enemies would have a much harder time of this without this equipment." Dawson looked at the dots filling the command window. It only took a few moments for the process to finish, even though it seemed like longer. The command screen blanked again, then flashed some other text

**Specify target directory for decrypted file copy**

Dawson typed a folder path and waited while the files copied. When it was done, Dawson opened the directory. He was confronted with a torrent of .rar archive files. It was a simple matter to call up that program and create a list of directly useable files. There were several listed:

**^$%^^%%%^.*&(**

**^$%^^%%%^.$^%**

**^$%^^%%%^.****#$!**

**(*&^%$^&***.(^%**

"Well, aren't you going to open them, Dawson?" Paddy was not the computer literate sort, but Dawson was thinking from a security perspective. The four named files were nowhere near the size of what they should have been had they been actual files with the named file handle. Dawson opened up a hex editor and looked at the named files. Not surprisingly, they were not what they said they were. They were actually executable files; the actual designation was hidden by the first three lettered file handle. The four files contained rather nasty viruses. Dawson deleted them. The ones that seemed to be gibberish, though, they had a proper file size for large files. The hex editor showed them to be what the four named files were. Dawson changed the file names. Before he viewed anything though, he copied off the files to his laptop and to the server farm. Though the files rested in an encrypted folder, that folder would be backed up in due course, but now Dawson had some breathing room. He virus scanned the files to be sure, and then loaded the movie file into a player. The file was not the best quality, but it was still viewable. Laskey appeared on the screen disheveled and pale. It did not take long until his video had Dawson's utmost attention.


	28. Chapter 27

The watcher headquarters was well off the beaten path in NYC. This had advantages as well as drawbacks. One side of the building faced an alley which had really no traffic through it. In the early morning hours, no one seemed to notice or paid any mind to a lift utility truck in the alley way. Its lift rose and stopped at one of the second floor windows.

There were eight guards on the second floor keeping a vigilant eye on the elevator and the surrounding area. A cell phone chime rang on one guard's phone. He caught the eyes of two others there as well. In short order, the other five guards were killed. While one stayed by the elevator, the other two went to a window on the floor and removed the grill on the window. Moments later, people climbed through the window and were on the second floor. Dougal was the last one to enter. At a nod of his head, his people killed the two who let them in, and then killed the one by the elevator. They now had control of the second floor of this building. Men were silently sent up the stairwells to see what protections were on those accesses. At the same time, the elevator was loaded with armed personnel. This had to be timed precisely for the most efficient effect. As soon as the stairwell teams were in place, Dougal gave the signal before joining one of the stairwell groups. _Time to rectify things,_ Dougal thought…..

"I hope it is known that I HATE you ALL! Even if you get this, they will not rest silent! For six years they have kept me a prisoner; if you see this, I am already dead…not like I have been living anyways, not any more. Load the database files included, you will see….YOU WILL SEE! I hope you FIND and KILL them ALL! And I HOPE you ALL DIE TOO!" Laskey had dissolved into maniacal laughter of someone that had been pushed over the edge. He was swilling what looked like whiskey while his speech alternated between relative levelheaded tones of voice to maniacal ravings barely discernible. Dawson, Paddy and all the others in the near vicinity were glued to the video file as it played. It was one off on the periphery that suddenly stated, "Level two is silent; they are not answering!" The two stairwell entrances to the third floor blew open as the elevator opened onto the third floor. The initial entrance left several more watchers dead and wounded. "Kill them all and destroy this place! Find whatever was sent here and destroy it as well!" The one who spoke had red hair so intense it looked like living flame. They had some sort of flak vest on but they were wearing a rather ornate sword. At first, it seemed the invaders would accomplish what they sought to do. Their initial surprise attack had lost its impetus almost immediately. Upon the breach, the server farm area sealed itself off; the hardened doors were proof against anything short of a nuclear weapon. Grenade blasts and bullets only scratched the doors. Despite the seemingly haphazard way the work areas looked, they were actually built for the worst case scenario. The guards by the doors and elevators were either dead or wounded, but the remaining personnel took cover behind the workstation desks. The desks were all bullet resistant. In moments, a firefight was in progress across the entire third floor. Watchers with M-16's and Uzis exchanged fire with the invaders. Paddy reacted in the same way he always did under fire; he first closed Dawson's laptop and snatched it off the desk. At the same time he pulled Dawson off balance and down. He unplugged the laptop and shoved it into its carrying case. Once he had what he considered important secured, he joined the fray. He grabbed the first attacker he could find and pummeled them into the ground. A bullet clipped his leg; several more hit his chest, but his body armor protected him. The invaders had managed to fight their way out of one stairwell area and the elevator, but not from the other stairwell area. Even so, the invaders had decent enough cover from any attack. He saw another watcher fall from their gunfire. Paddy was a large man, and he kept appropriate sized firearms on his person. He drew his Desert Eagle and jacked a round into the chamber. Even with standard loads, the pistol was deadly. He did not use standard ammo though. His shots went through the invaders' cover and turned the unlucky recipients into so many corpses. He watched other guards move in and finish that group, so he looked around for other targets. He watched one invader go down moments before, but then he watched them stagger back up. _A fucking immortal!_ Paddy had a solution to that too. He shot the immortal in the head. _I hope that gives him a fucking headache!_ His next shot dropped a grenade wielder. Paddy ducked down to shield both himself and Dawson from the blast. He took a quick look around. Too many watchers lay dead or dying and too many invaders were still in the fray. He noticed that the elevator had been jammed open; that was probably to stall any reinforcements. A wounded watcher dispatched the immortal Paddy shot in the head, but then the corpses' neck started to glow. Paddy mouthed an obscenity, then yelled, "Get the goddamn elevator working again!" Two watchers ran over to the elevator under fire. One was shot down and the other one was wounded. The wounded one still was able to alleviate the problem before they slumped to the floor. Paddy felt someone thumping on his back. He whirled around, pistol upraised. He shot the offending individual in the head. _It is amazing how much blood comes out of a human,_ he thought. The hot load had decapitated the shooter. "Dawson. Are you okay?" "Yeah, Paddy. Give me a goddamn weapon so I can shoot some of these assholes!" "You will be doing no such thing, Jim. You are too valuable as I once said before. Of course, unless we get some help, it may come to that." Paddy used his cell phone to make a call.

Dougal had already called for reinforcements. Though his surprise attack was initially successful, it was bogging down. All attempts to breach the server barriers had failed. They were doing better with the workstations, though; most all of those were in ruins. Once his help arrived, they could kill the watchers left alive then search with free rein. Dougal barely noticed a crackle of quickening fire soak into his left arm; that meant one of his immortals had died. He paid it no mind, though; he had heard the name Dawson shouted twice so far. He saw Dawson as Dawson looked at him. The person protecting Dawson was not only of gargantuan size, they were heavily armored as well. The pistol they wielded was one of the most powerful ever made. One of his mortals was decapitated by a shot to the head. Dougal adopted a smug expression as he saw more help pour out of the stairwells. Soon they would achieve their goal, but he saw 3 CDs clutched in Dawson's hand. That, to him, looked like what that bastard Laskey had sent.

Duncan found the vehicle mentioned on the phone. He approached it warily, not knowing what to expect. The rear passenger door opened and a nondescript man got out. He motioned for Duncan to get in. _Oh well, I do not like this, but if I get to see Dawson, it will be worth it._ He slid into the rear seat, and then the other man got in. The vehicle was rolling even before the door shut. "Nice vehicle you have, real subtle." Duncan smirked at his comment.

"Why don't you shut the fuck up with your wiseass remarks, or we might dump you off at the curb."

Duncan shrugged. "No blindfold? I said I would agree provided no threat was aimed at me."

The one who first spoke started to say something else, but a female there cut him off. "Some things have radically changed, McLeod." She closed her notebook PC and gave him a piercing stare. "Thank you for not killing those two last night. As you can understand, we are all on edge. Our sources say you can be trusted. I seriously hope that is the case." She took out some pictures. "Do you know any of these people?" The first one was of a male with red hair and green eyes. The second one was a female with the same hair and eyes.

"I have not seen the male. The female may have been killed. My friend cut off a head of someone that looked like that in Paris."

The woman raised her eyebrows. "This woman was seen in Paris. We think she coordinated an attack on the watcher HQ there."

"Well, if it is the same female, she is dead."

"The male has been spotted here in NYC. Are you sure you have not seen them?"

"Yes I am. I am sorry to be so blunt, but where is Dawson?"

Someone in the front seat answered their cell phone. Only a few words were exchanged, all on the other end. The person shut down their phone. "Call out for help, the NYC Watcher HQ is under attack!" The Expedition markedly picked up speed as all in the car jumped on their phones. The woman looked at Duncan. "We were expecting this at some point; just not as quickly. Hang on!" The Expedition picked up cars at nearly every stoplight. They fortunately did not have too far to go. Like an intelligent sort of centipede, the convoy of vehicles stopped and parked as quickly as possible. There were no less than forty grim faced people. While several went to scout the perimeter of the building, the rest went into the doors. It was pandemonium there. No less than twenty people were at the elevator trying to force open the door. "Forget about it, the elevator is fucked. Why aren't you using the stairwells?"

"The elevator is here, its just the doors are jammed—"

"Use the fucking stairwells! We are out of time!"

A watchers cell rang. "They used an utility truck to force their way into the second floor. What are we gonna do about that?"

"Let the ones outside deal with that shit, We have to MOVE!" Weapons drawn, the group of people moved up the stairs in rapid single file. They ran into invader reinforcements going up to the third floor. The watchers gunned them down in a hail of bullets. While most stepped on or over the bodies on their way up, a few others entered the second floor.

Dougal was chortling as he surveyed the scene of death and destruction. This escapade had cost him some troops, but it would be worth it. They had not been able to fully breach the server barriers, but they had been able to damage some of the array. He winced as the fat bastard guarding Dawson iced another of his mortals; that was a monstrous handgun. He would have to deal with this matter himself. He gestured over 3 others of his group to assist him in this endeavor.

Paddy had just capped another murderous asshole, and was looking for more targets, but none of any opportunity presented itself. He watched another immortal get dispatched; he also noticed the glow coming from their neck. "Dawson, that's the second time I have seen that in the last few minutes. What in hell is going on; I do not see any quickening!"

"I have no idea, Paddy. The red headed one seems to be in charge of them." Then they both looked in shock. The quickening lightning was simply being absorbed into the red head that was headed towards them; no quickening, no disorientation. It was Paddy's refusal to be mesmerized by essentially _anything_ that saved him from possibly being blinded. The redhead uncapped his sword pommel and tossed some liquid at Paddy. Most of it splattered his coat, which gave off an acrid stench as the acid ate into it. Some splashed the side of his face and it started to burn, causing Paddy some serious pain. He had moved aside, so it did not get into his eyes. He saw three invaders coming up on his former blind side. He reached into his pocket and dropped a .357 magnum into Dawson's hands. The first assailant had a wicked looking combat knife, but his abdominal thrust was stopped by the shell armor Paddy was wearing. He smashed that one in the face with the butt of his Desert Eagle, then took aim on the second assailant. Dawson had shot the third one, but yelled, "Paddy! Behind you!"

Paddy whirled as he dropped the clip from his pistol and slammed home a fresh one. The redheaded bastard had a sword! "You fat bastard, you have cost me FAR more in trouble then you are worth!"

Paddy brought up a forearm to block the slash. It cut through his coat and deep into his left arm. Then the redhead went for a quick jab. It went into Paddy's left shoulder just outside the shell armor protection, and it was angled towards his heart. Paddy screamed as the acid edged blade burned and cut at the same time. He had always been a big man and never once had to deal with such pain; he usually gave, not received. Paddy went berserk with rage. Despite the pain, his left fist smashed into his assailant. They were driven back far enough so that the sword was removed, but Paddy was seriously wounded. His adrenaline was at a mad pitch; his rage blocked out any further pain he felt. His Desert Eagle boomed even as the redhead prepared for another stab. It knocked them away and down. Paddy fired again. This round compromised the vest the redhead was wearing; blood welled from the wound. The redhead pointed his hand at the wound. Quickening fire erupted form his hand, almost instantly healing any damage that had been caused. Paddy was aware of new shouts around him. He looked only for a second. Help had arrived. The group of invaders tried to flee, but one after another, they were cut down. The redhead had a smirk on his visage as he came towards Paddy again. Paddy fired another round, hitting the same place as the last one. The bastard once again poured quickening fire into the wound! _What in fuck is this! _ The redhead suddenly had more quickening fire soak into him. It came from another despatched immortal. The redhead had more troubles now though. A watcher attacked him with an axe; the redhead sliced his face open. Even as that one fell back with a bubbling scream, another moved in. The first attack had caused the redhead to stand near a badly compromised window. A second watcher swung an axe in a way that would have made any baseball fan proud. The watcher had ducked the sword blow headed his way first, and swung underneath it. That was all that saved the redhead from dying there on the spot. The force of the axe blow was so vicious that half the axe head dug into the redheads' chest. The kinetic force of the blow picked the redhead up and slammed him through the remains of the window. His body smacked into the opposite building about twenty feet down, then dropped like a rock to land face down in the alley. Paddy sank to one knee; he was gravely wounded. He looked to see if Dawson was ok. The third floor was in ruins from the battle. The last of the immortals were despatched.

"I think you better find out what's in those files, Dawson. I hope to bloody hell they were worth all this."

"Dawson! Are you okay!"

"Duncan! I am so glad to see you! How in hell did you get the other watchers to bring you here?"

"It's a rather involved story. I have some information as to what is going on."

"I have some too, but these bastards interrupted our perusal of it. That redheaded bastard seems to have some new immortal tricks up his sleeve. And I have no idea who the hell he is."

"His name might be Dougal, Dawson. What in hell did he do?"

"For starters, he absorbed a quickening at least twice with no disorienting effects or light show. Then he almost instantly healed himself from more than one bullet wound."

"No quickening occurred?"

"I think it did, but it was like the power transferred was nothing." Dawson watched as Paddy was helped to a stretcher. Dawson palmed his cell phone that was in Paddy's pocket. "Paddy was seriously injured by the red head too. I think whoever the hell he was wanted some information I was sent from the UK."

Duncan looked around the area. "I hope to hell it was worth this."

Dawson laughed, "Paddy said the same thing not too long ago. I think they are going to shut this HQ down and go to ground. I think you ought to come with us."

Duncan had a steely gaze upon his countenance. "I don't think so. I need a way to keep in contact with you, but I am going to look for a red haired bastard named Dougal."

"McLeod, don't you think that is kind of dangerous?"

"Dawson, this needs to be taken care of by an immortal. There is possibly two factions involved in this; neither one of them are very nice people." He told Dawson about the monk and his run in with him.

"Holy shit, McLeod! He attacked them in broad daylight with his sword?"

"Yes, Dawson. It seems that the expert you sent to me to look at what I had somehow let them know as well."

A Watcher ran up to them. "That redheaded bastard just got up and staggered off after he removed the axe! Should we pursue them?"

"Under no circumstance are you to do so. I want to know where they are going though. I think this issue will be decided by other means."

"By what means, sir?"

Duncan answered. "By my sword versus his. Do NOT interfere with me!"

Dawson did not like what he saw in Duncan's eyes. He knew there was even more trouble to come, but he had to worry about other things now, such as cleaning up this mess and reading some files. It was going to be a long day. _I hope to hell you know what you are doing Duncan._

Duncan had been pushed as far as he was going to be pushed. The last time a war between watchers and immortals had occurred, a number of immortals had died as well as some watchers. His friend Darius was killed by the renegade watchers who had started it. Now, this time it was an immortal that was leading attacks on watchers. This could not be tolerated. The balance needed to be kept, if only to make sure that most mortals were kept ignorant of immortals. He would find this immortal and have a chat with them. If that did not work…well, he had his sword by its side and freshly sharpened, and he practiced some katas before he decided to get some rest.

His phone rang in the early evening, as dusk was giving way to dark. "This is McLeod" He heard a familiar voice on the other end.

"I have heard you are seeking one murderous red haired piece of shit?"

"That I am. Where are they?"

"Well, I can give you the location, but there are some rather odd things about this one."

"I know about what Dawson told me—"

"No, this is in addition to what he told you. He is holed up at the following location." Duncan got the address. "This bastard seems to have some odd ideas of what the five basic food groups are. You will know what I mean if you see him. One more thing: If you do not kill them, we will. We are not going to suffer him to live, one way or another." The phone went dead. _And here we go,_ Duncan thought.

Duncan thought about what he was going to do for a second. _I am going to attack an immortal about which I know nearly nothing. It is possible he may be more powerful than I am. Chances are, he probably is._ Duncan sighed. This would not be the first time he ventured into undiscovered immortal country, but he decided it was prudent to make some calls first. He first dialed a number up from memory.

"This is Amanda."

"This is Duncan. How are things over there?"

"We are okay over here for the moment. There are a lot more police running around then usual, but it's not hard to figure out why."

"I am in NYC. I managed to contact Dawson, but the watcher HQ here was attacked. What can you tell me about the red headed bastards you seem to remember from the head you took?"

Amanda quickly refreshed him on all that she knew. "Why do you want to know this, Duncan?"

"Because I am going to have a chat with one here shortly; he and his group killed a lot of watchers tonight. If I do not deal with it, they will."

"Duncan, are you sure this is a good idea? We really don't know that much about them."

"Well, I am not sure if this is a good idea, but perhaps I can get some more answers one way or another. Take care, Amanda. I am leaving now."

"You keep yourself safe, Duncan." The phone went dead. Duncan donned his coat and took his sword. He caught a taxi to the area where the address was. When he arrived, it was early evening and a rather clear night.

The first thing he noticed after he left the cab was that he once again was being shadowed by watchers. When he turned to face one, all they did was give him a small salute from their hat. Duncan shook his head and proceeded onward. Up ahead, part of the street was barricaded off by a cluster of police and emergency vehicles. Duncan glanced at the center of the commotion and saw a male and a female corpse being loaded into vehicles. A smashed and overturned baby carriage was also present. Duncan crossed the street, and then crossed back once the scene was past. _That was rather odd,_ he thought. He now was at the address he was given. The building was several stories high; it looked like a tenement apartment complex; the boards on the windows and the condemnation stickers seemed to verify his guess. He was about to look for an entry when his cell phone chimed. With a mild look of exasperation, he answered it.

"This is McLeod."

"Duncan. It's Dawson. Where are you?"

"I am at an address I was given regarding one red haired bastard. I was about to enter the building. Sometimes you have bad timing regarding calls."

Dawson chuckled. "We have been cleaning up all day since you left. 16 Watchers are dead, 18 more are wounded. I take it you had a conversation with the ones earlier regarding the red head?"

"Yes, I did."

"We don't know who else is in that building. Do not take this the wrong way, but there are at least a dozen watchers watching that edifice. One way or another, that bastard will die. This is against our rules, but they are going to help you as much as possible. Good luck." Duncan terminated the call, and then looked around the area. He saw nothing amiss. After thinking it over for a second, he turned off his cell phone.

Tenement apartment complex was the right word to describe this place, Duncan though. Though it was unoccupied, several strong odors remained. The ammonia stench of stale urine was almost overpowering in some cases. He did not encounter anyone until he emerged on the third floor. He heard the sound of a weapon being cocked. He went a short distance back down the stairs as he saw the stairwell door explode open under a hail of bullets. The barrage stopped and he heard someone inspecting the area. He snapped his katana to guard position as he quickly moved up the stairs. The person with the Uzi was not able to react fast enough to the unexpected intrusion. Duncan ran the mortal through; if they wanted to play for keeps, he could oblige them. He continued up the stairs, walking as silently as possible. In the 5th floor stairwell there was a shoddily constructed tripwire. Duncan saw where it ran, but he had an idea on how to use this to his advantage. He very carefully stepped over the wire making no sound. At the top of the stairs, he kicked a large piece of rubble down so that it landed on the trip wire. He was in motion upwards seconds after he did so. He was rewarded by an explosion and a scream. On the seventh floor, he found a body. They had been shot through the head. He saw the starred hole in the stairwell window. _Help however they can…interesting._ Finally, he made it to the rooftop stairwell. He listened silently for anyone waiting there, but heard nothing. Taking no chances, he combat rolled through the door and came erect with sword upraised. He smelled something that was rather off; it seemed to sort of sully the air in the area. _I smell blood…and excrement!_ There was a small pool of blood near him; it was already congealing as well as it could. The other offensive odor as well as the smell of blood grew stronger when he headed in a specific direction. He was on the outskirts of the central area of the roof. There was the red head. They were sitting in a relaxed position; they seemed to be concentrating on what they were eating, paying their surroundings no mind.


	29. Chapter 28

Dougal was happily enjoying his repast. It took his mind off of his failure earlier today. They had attacked and they had destroyed, but he did not think he had destroyed all of what he came to destroy. Laskey, it seems, would have the last laugh after all. How long would it be before watcher bastards sought to even the score? They would be able to as well. He had mistakenly thought that all watchers were like the craven coward Laskey, but even Laskey had showed some spine after all. Somehow, he would have to rectify his dire error as fast as possible. Once the watchers had scoped the information they now had, they would be doing some verification of various people and cells. Once they found out that all was not well, they would deal with it in a harsh manner. He and the others would be found out. He had killed that couple because their baby looked so succulent. It was everything he had hoped it would be. He was so intent upon his repast he ignored the sounds from below. He did not even bother to take his eyes from the leg he was eating until he heard the scrape of metal across roof tile. He looked up to see someone facing him with a drawn sword.

Duncan walked slowly and quietly towards the seated individual. He looked all around the area for anyone else. It appeared that they were alone. That was a good thing. He made the mistake of looking down when he caught a strong scent of offal. It was a baby. A HUMAN baby! A DEAD human baby torn into several pieces! One arm had been gnawed almost clean and both of its legs were missing. One leg was lying by the seated individual. Where was the other leg….unless that was what the person was EATING? The person looked up from their repast, face smeared with blood. Some had even stuck to their hair. The hand holding the grisly repast was also blood covered. Duncan felt his gorge rise…this could not be possible. This was so OBSCENE that, for a moment, he could not adequately place it in his paradigm. The redhead was a cannibal? Then he absorbed it with many conflicting thoughts; this was not the time to be ill over any sort of depredation. He actually did come here initially to chat, but now he knew he would not bother to do so. He was here to kill that…obscenity seated where they were. This bastard had nearly killed his friend; this bastard also was killing watchers indiscriminately. To get his attention, Duncan ran the tip of his katana over some of the roof covering. It worked well enough. The redhead looked up to see Duncan only 10 or so feet away from him.

Duncan spoke first. "Who are you and what in hell are you doing?"

The redhead smiled a bloody smile at him. "What does it look like, stupid? I am enjoying a decent meal; I have not had one for a while. Too much work to do and all that." The redhead tore off another piece of the baby. Duncan noticed that they were drinking wine with their repast. "You are eating another human being. What in HELL sort of obscenity are you!"

The redhead no longer was smiling. "I resent you insulting my personage in that way. Perhaps you will join me? There is plenty enough for two here. If not, then please take your puerile, ludicrous self away from here along with your stupid looking sword. The nerve of some youngling pests!" As if Duncan was not there, the redhead went back to eating.

"Dawson, contact has been made. If this can be believed, the redhead looks like he is eating a human baby. McLeod already has his sword out. You want a video feed?"

Dawson sighed, "I am asking you…do I? Yes, give me a feed; I am glad I haven't eaten recently."

Duncan was circling the redhead now. "I know who you are, Dougal."

Dougal laughed, "I seriously doubt you do; that is, no more than a name. It's more than a youngling deserves. And what exactly are you going to do with that sword?" Dougal laughed again as he reached for his wine goblet. Next to it was a small duffel bag and his sword. Dougal drank deeply of the wine. "How is it that you got past the people on the lower floors?"

"They are dead; they blocked me from coming up to the roof where I was told you would be."

"I think I have heard your name too. What is it…Dungheap McClod or some such? It is of no matter. You are interfering with my repast. Go away…I may let you live awhile longer." Dougal was staring at Duncan with a slightly perturbed expression.

"What does a monk have to do with you? Or Bronwyn?"

Dougal's face lost all expression of nicety and joviality. "You DARE speak her name? And also that of the Destroyer?" Dougal put down his leg and wiped his hand on a cloth nearby.

"What if I do, you bastard? I think you are afraid of the monk, that is if that is what he is. Somehow, I do not think he was a monk all the time. Where are the others? I have names; now I am going to find out WHAT and WHY!" Duncan stood there eyeing Dougal, ready for any trick.

Dougal glared at Duncan and picked up his sword. Suddenly Duncan realized that he had NOT felt Dougal as he approached him. Now he was able to do so. A discordant feeling suffused through his being as he felt something like a wave of vertigo course through him. He fought down the feeling with all of his being. As he did so he heard Dougal scream, "WE were OLD LONG before you were even BORN! I do NOT have to TELL you ANYTHING!"

Duncan had finally reached his boiling point as he brought up his sword, murder in his eyes. "Then you die tonight, you bastard." Duncan crossed the gap between them as he struck with his sword. Dougal quickly evaded and countered. Metal upon metal now echoed across the roof of the building.

"Dawson, they have joined battle! What do you want us to do?"

"Stay the hell out of it. Let's see how things fall." Dawson was not feeling to optimistic about his friend though. _I hope you did not bite off more than you can chew, McLeod._

Duncan was not so sure about the path he had chosen. This bastard was _smirking_ at him as they parried all of his blows while giving almost no ground. He on the other hand had some superficial cuts that gave off an acrid smell as they ruined his shirt. He had cast off his jacket so as he could fight unencumbered, but it seemed that he was out matched. He managed to cut Dougal once, but as he watched, the wound healed in almost an instant. Dougal was so smug and assured of himself, he was taunting Duncan. "Come on now, stupid, can't you fight any better than that?" Duncan knew the comments were made to enrage. If rage overtook him, he was dead. Dougal was faster on his feet then Duncan; as far as Duncan could see, he was outclassed at every turn. He missed a sword blow and left himself open. He received a painful cut across his upper right arm. Dougal stepped in and disarmed Duncan; his katana flew over and stuck in an air vent, its power of flight made it vibrate up and down before finally being still. "Now you lost your sword! Why did you do such a foolish thing like that! I wonder, would you taste good with my wine?" Duncan fled the general area, taking refuge behind a structure on the roof. "No, no, you are not going to run away from this, stupid youngling! I am going to cut off your head! That is what you pay for so rudely interrupting me!" Dougal ran around the structure with his sword out. Dougal struck at Duncan's neck, but Duncan ducked and kicked Dougal as hard as he could. _Any one skilled in unarmed combat could have blocked that blow, _he thought. _Maybe they are not?_ Duncan was without his sword, so he figured he had nothing to lose. His kick bought him some time. He ran out into the central area again with Dougal not far behind. Duncan rolled forward at the same time he angled to the side. Spinning his legs around, he impacted Dougal in the side of his knee, knocking Dougal down. Dougal attempted to get his sword, but now Duncan was upon him. Dougal was probably the better swordsman, but unfortunately for him, he had little skill in unarmed combat. Duncan smashed his fist into Dougal's face; he needed to keep him from his sword. Next he grabbed Dougal and threw him into another structure on the building's roof. He then began to systemically pummel and beat Dougal until his clothes were in tatters. Dougal made a feint to try to get his sword again, but Duncan tripped him heavily. He was sort of surprised when Dougal tried to bite him; Dougal's teeth were all filed to points. Duncan remembered what Amanda had suffered, so he had no intent of letting that happen. Duncan clamped his right hand around Dougal's throat; it provided sufficient leverage to keep his teeth away from him. Dougal was trying to punch Duncan, but the blows had little effect. Duncan head butted Dougal hard and heard his nose break. He then kicked Dougal off of him so that he smashed into an antenna array on the building. Duncan rose up to his feet and quickly scanned the area for his weapon. Dougal was infuriated.

"How DARE you fight like a simple beast! I will not suffer your hands upon me again!"

He saw Duncan's sword the same time Duncan did; they both ran for the blade. Dougal reached it a fraction sooner, but Duncan was right behind him. He smashed Dougal full force into the air vent, making some nasty dents in the metal. He cast Dougal to the ground, and then pulled out his katana. Dougal was disoriented for a second, and then found his own sword. He ran over and picked it up; he only barely blocked a blow Duncan delivered. Once more, it fell to swordplay, but Duncan now had a game plan. Now he was forcing Dougal to attack him; he either blocked with his sword, or kicked and punched. When Dougal made to run for the stairwell, Duncan blocked his path. They faced each other, Dougal with a look of rage mixed with some actual fear; Duncan simply grim. Duncan twirled his katana with authority. Dougal raised his left hand and point it at Duncan. Duncan had seen Amanda do the same thing before, so he rolled out of the path of the tendril of quickening fire. Dougal was getting careless, or possibly desperate. Once again, Duncan felt that sickening feeling of vertigo again, but he fought past it. He then hatched a desperate idea to win this battle. He rolled towards Dougal, making him think he did not see his sword extended. Duncan impaled himself on the sword, but he was now inside Dougal's guard. With their sword impaling him, they could not raise it to block his blow. Dougal's smirk changed to a look of surprise as Duncan struck with all of his strength. Fortunately, his katana was sharp enough to cleave Dougal's head from his shoulders. The head rolled to the ground and stopped; the surprised look remained upon it. Duncan slumped to his knees, almost totally spent. With a grimace of agony, he pulled out the sword imbedded in his abdomen. The pain immediately began to abate, but he would not be running or walking for a while. The headless body did not fall; it _stood_ there as if it was still alive. Its hand had dropped from the sword as Duncan felt the static feeling he was used to. When he looked around, he saw no quickening energy moving around like it usually did. It all seemed to be concentrated in Dougal's neck. It grew brighter and brighter; Duncan had to shield his eyes from the glare. An ominous rumbling started from underneath his feet. It was actually all over, the whole building was rumbling. The quickening power was not bolts of lightning, either; it poured from Dougal's neck and oozed across the rooftop. More and more fled from the corpse until it all had leached out. The corpse collapsed to the ground. Duncan was aware of a wind picking up in speed as he looked around. _Where in hell is the quickening?_ Duncan happened to look down at his feet. They were awash in more of a solid glow then a quickening fire; it had covered the rooftop as well. As Duncan watched, the glow crept up his legs and torso and to his neck. _Odd, I do not feel the wound in my abdomen anymore._ Then his whole world went white as he was picked up like a rag doll and slammed across the roof….

"Dawson, we have what appears to be a quickening! It is not like any we have seen before, though. It is engulfing the building! The building may collapse!" The caller had filmed the fight on his camera and had patched the feed to Dawson. The building which had been non-descript before was now capped with a bright cover that was leaking down through the stories to the ground. Damn it all, Dawson thought, so much for hiding from mortals; that has got to be visible for miles.

"Keep monitoring your post. Stay the hell away from anyone approaching that area. I am going to be busy for a while, so this will be my last contact for the interim." Dawson terminated the call, and then powered off the phone. Most of the damage had been cleaned up to the watcher HQ, but his new escorts were taking no chances. Dawson had been spirited away to a very closely guarded location in NYC. No less than 20 heavily armed guards were in the immediate area. Paddy was in the hospital from his wounds. _16 watchers and guards killed._ Dawson felt a moment of sorrow for the fallen, but he needed to see what information was on the CDs he had been sent. To either side of him, a senior watcher member sat. The three of them gazed intently at the screen as Dawson opened the first file. Prior to doing anything though, his system was backed up to guard against any accidents. The largest file was almost one gig in size, so it took a few moments to load. "I guess these are immortals they were tracking over there." He had a colleague call up his database on another machine. None of the names in the new database were in the old one.

"Sir, it is asking us if we want to combine or link the databases."

"Do not combine them. We need to figure out who these people are first."

"Maybe they are the unidentified immortals that have been cropping up?"

Dawson looked at his colleague. "It's worth a shot." He called up a list of the immortals for which they had no record.

"Sir, we are getting repeated matches! How about if we link that file to the main database? That way we can have one file of all of them and the separate file as well." A few strokes on the keyboard and it was done. Laskey's first file contained info on more than 300 immortals of which the watchers had no idea existed. Once the filtering occurred, they had over 70 matches, most of those were deceased. That left a large number of them unidentified at the moment. Dawson loaded the second file. This had only 70 entries total. Several more of the unidentified immortals were in this database. The third file had only 14 entries in it. Two of them had deceased by their profiles. Dawson identified the head Duncan brought them as another in this small database. The red haired leader of the invasion was also listed as well. Unlike the first and second database, this one had numerous lines of commentary concerning most of the entries. Three of them looked decidedly non-human. There was a group of eight then a group of six. "How in HELL did they pull this off?" Dawson was not in a good mood. What in hell was going on? Dawson shrugged his shoulders. At least they had the information. He intended to make good use of it. It was no real matter to pull up what watchers were where. Dawson gave some direct and explicit orders. The list of watcher cells now on his PC was now all considered suspect. He quickly contacted other watchers who volunteered to check out all the places listed. When one asked what to do if there were any problems at any of the locations, Dawson spoke, "You might want to bring some axes along. If they hit you, hit back hard. If its corrupted watchers…..do what needs to be done. We need to get this under control." Dawson turned his cell phone back on. He listened to the voice mails he had been left. The quickening that happened regarding McLeod was anything but subtle.

It was largely due to the events of September 11 that minimized any visibility of watcher and immortal from the quickening. After some people phoned in the glowing rooftop, the powers that be moved into action. All that it took was someone to mention the word 'terrorist'. The area involved was one that was up for urban renewal, so in jig time, law enforcement had the area cordoned off on the ground and in the air. Some spectacular footage was shot when the glowing building collapsed in a blast of light; its collapse also damaged structures in the immediate facility. The end result was a few more pork laden demolition contracts after a CSI team was sent in due to finding some bodies in the rubble, including that of a newborn and a decapitated redhead. That solved a rather grisly crime, but they never found out what exactly happened there. There was a minor surge in the news when the redhead's body had disappeared, but after a few sound bites for the local politicians decrying terrorism, the matter was filed away into obscurity.

He became aware by degrees. An attempt to move an arm brought a scream of agony, and then the pain seemed to suddenly abate. They pulled their arm out of the rubble; the sweater they were wearing had been badly abraded. He looked at his arm. There was no reason that he should have suffered any pain; the arm was whole. He coughed as he tried to clear the air of smoke and other such detritus. It took a few tries, but he managed to first get to his knees, then stagger erect. _Where was he and what happened?_ He could not seem to clear his head to think. Something was stuck on his foot. He jerked his foot free then looked down. He pulled out a small duffel bag from the ruins. More by reflex then through any conscious action, he hooked it over his shoulder. Next he saw something glinting on the ground. He pulled up a sword. It had an appealing design to it. He whipped it through the air a few times. He liked how it felt. He then saw another gleam a little farther away. It was another sword. He decided he did not like it, but he put it with the first one he had found. He pulled another something from the rubble. It was a coat of some sort. He was a little chilly. The coat seemed to fit him perfectly once he tried it on. Off in the immediate distance, he saw lights and heard wailing noises. He initially took a step in that direction, and then he halted. _I do not want to be seen by them. _How did he know this? What had happened here?Everywhere he looked, he saw only destruction, from splintered wood to chunks of stony material. Well, if he was not going to approach the lights and noises, he had better get out of here, because the lights and noises seemed to be converging on where he was. Slowly at first, but with increasing speed, he headed away from the rubble of the building. He silently crossed the street into a not so damaged building, and so he was able to avoid the cordoning off maneuver that the police had put into action.

He had no idea where he was going or how far he had gone, but he felt that he could rest a bit where he was. There seemed to be a lot more people here; that made him feel comfortable. He found an alley which even if its smells were not pleasant, allowed him a respite from his travels. He flopped down on a decrepit old chair. The swords clanked together when he released them. He put his head into his hands. Try as he might, he could not think clearly. He yawned as he looked around. Maybe rest was a good idea. In no time, he was asleep.

** Wales**

Dhurgal awoke from where he was sleeping. He had headed south after his failure at the hillfort. He remembered paying some money to stay at the inn where he was; he also was here for other reasons: this was home. There were farm fields where his clan house used to be, but after all this time, he still remembered. It was there that he had felt at home. His awakening this time had been sudden, though; not the gradual awakening one would get from peaceful slumber. In his dreams he fought and feasted repeatedly on succulent young children. Not all of his dreams were peaceful though. One dream was a battle he had with HIM. His larger size and reach did little to help him. It was only sheer luck that allowed him to keep his head that time. They never feared him; when they saw him, they came at him at a dead run with that accursed black sword. They had beaten him down into the ground. Now he was awake all of a sudden, and soon he realized why. Something had gone wrong….Dougal was dead…DEAD! He let loose an animal like howl as he pounded his bed with his fists. It looked like he would have to confront HIM, a task he did not relish. But as he calmed down, he felt something else. He had somewhere else to go. He got his belongings together and left the inn. He caught a ferry to Ireland. He KNEW where he had to go. He was not prepared to go out and actively seek HIM, so he would have to wait for them to arrive. He got a room close by where he had to go; he decided to wait for nightfall.

He was thinking he was having a dream; it seemed like one anyways. He was walking over a greensward of sorts; occasionally he would see some sort of menhirs jutting up through the ground. Up ahead, he saw someone sitting on a piece of stone. He walked up to them.

"Where am I? And who are you?"

The person turned to them. His hair was a flaming red and his eyes were a piercing green. Their face was smeared in blood due to what they were eating. It was the leg of a human male, probably from a child. The person snickered at him, "This is what you get for interfering, youngling!" The redhead vomited a river of blood at him. He failed to see the significance of that action, so he side stepped the torrent.

"That is not an answer, you bastard. Who are you and where am I?"

The redhead was enraged all of a sudden. They leaped off the rock with their sword ready to strike. He parried the blow. Soon, they battled back and forth over the greensward. _Why am I doing this, _he thought. Did I not already do this? He had no problem keeping the swordsman at bay. It was almost too easy. The redheaded individual became more and more enraged as they kept on the attack. "You never should have beat me, youngling! I will not suffer that ignominy again. I will become you rather then perish!" He digested this information as he easily parried the redhead. Suddenly something clicked in his mind. "If I already killed you, then you can't be alive." He disarmed the redhead then ran him through with his sword. He pulled out his sword as the redhead staggered. He swept off their head. The redhead disappeared. He continued walking on the greensward, but nothing else seemed to change. Then he saw the redhead running towards him again. He easily blocked their stroke. He struck again, severing their head. Once more they disappeared. This happened several more times as he kept walking in the same direction. Then he saw a large number of the redheads running at him. For some reason, he was not afraid. He was surrounded by duplicates of himself. They all moved forward and decapitated the redheads. He now approached a structure. It looked rather odd. As he came to its entrance though, the door slammed open and more redheads emerged with swords. He gave up fighting them sword to sword and went to just lopping off their heads. Their swords caused him no distress. The scene rippled like glass then shattered in accompaniment to a loud shriek…..

He awoke in the dingy chair he had found. He wiped clammy sweat from his brow then sat up. He felt slightly better, but try as he might, he could not focus on a clear thought. It was as if his mind was cluttered with too much information. Scene after scene flickered through his mind and he seemed to have no way to control it. He took several calming breaths. _Let's try something simple at first._ He attempted to blank his mind from the bombardment of information.

I am…

He managed to get that far before all the thoughts swarmed in. _That was not bad for a first try_

I am….Duncan…

It took a lot of effort to even get that much out, but he felt he was making headway

I am….Duncan….McLeod!

Duncan snapped erect. He had thought he had heard a scream, but upon looking around, he could see no evidence of that. Slowly, by degrees, he pieced things together in his mind as to what happened. _Was that another dark quickening?_ He mentally checked himself out. No, he was still who he was; when he had the dark quickening, he was not in control of his faculties or actions. Since he was in control, it was not one of those, thank god. _Is this what Amanda suffered_ _when she cut off the head of Bronwyn? If so, why did he not suffer the same fate?_ He was much more seasoned then Amanda, and Dougal had not bit him. _Perhaps that was why._ _Still, that was one hell of a quickening._ The clanking of metal made Duncan look inside his coat. He not only had his sword, but Dougal's as well. He also now had a small satchel with a shoulder strap. Inside was a rather battered tome full of pictures. _Those are hieroglyphs._ Now how in hell did he know that? They were like none he had ever seen before. There was some modern currency in there. The last thing he pulled out was a half circlet that looked like silver. It had a rune of some sorts engraved in it, but nothing else of note. _Haha….it was hers…I took it as I cut off her head…after we had our way with her! _Duncan snapped erect. What in hell was going on here? It was as if someone was talking to him, but no one was present. He put it aside for the moment; he felt well enough to travel. He needed a shower and a change of clothes.

Duncan made it back to his hotel room with no further incident. He felt a lot better once he was clean. He tossed the ruined shirt into the garbage. He debated as to whether he should call anyone. He sighed and activated his phone. He dialed back the number Dawson used earlier. He left a terse message then hung up. He once again dwelled upon his earlier dilemma. Who in hell had he killed tonight? Dougal Ap Hwywd. Duncan whirled around to inspect his hotel room. Was he going insane? It was that voice again. It seemed to be in an odd language as well, almost like singing. Well, that is how the Eldritch tongue sounds when properly spoken! Right, elf speech. Elves were a myth. Considering the Ap Hwywds have elven blood in their line, I would think not. That was what it sounded like. It was as if the one he had killed was talking to him! How was that possible? They were DEAD. Yes, but not their memories of what they knew. I am part of you now, for good…or bad! _Duncan thought upon that for a moment; that sort of made sense. What in hell is an Ap Hwywd? __Our clan.__ Okay, then who in hell was that person in a monk's robe?__ That is NO Monk, no matter what he calls himself! That is the DESTROYER! __That tells me nothing. __They were the chieftain of another clan….Ap Anon. Ardis Ap Anon.__ They have not used clan delineation for centuries. __Centuries? Haha…try millennia, stupid .__Millenia? Methos was supposed to be the oldest immortal! __Yes…after he was forced to take up that distinction. I was surprised Ardis made it work, after all. He BLACKMAILED us! We never forgot! __The cannibalism? __No, no…that was the original penalty of which we became accused. Had it not been for a foolish oversight, we never would have been caught. We killed his queen as well. For that, he sought our deaths. Our clan was over 100 when he attacked…..only 7 of us escaped that day. He killed the rest.__ Duncan took a second to digest this information. What was the big deal? It was only a chieftainship over a clan?__ No, stupid! Ardis was not just a Chieftain. He was Caeltom Könige! __And that was what? __Amazing an idiot youngling got this far! King over ALL the Celtic Clans! That should have gone to us! __There is no history to show that at any time there was a single king over all the tribes or clans or people! __Considering the war between our clans was started in 3500 B.C., I would think there would be no records.__ And elves? They are solely of myth. __The Daoine Na Sidhe existed as well. You now can understand and speak their tongue.__ Duncan wanted to stop and digest what he now knew, but he forged on. What in hell was that monk carrying? __It looks like iron, but is darker. He slaughtered us with that sword. It is said he forged it himself, as well as his armor. That is plausible. He was a good blacksmith. __Why in hell did this war start between you and yours and the watchers? __Haha! We will suffer no watchers; nor will Ardis. We haven't directly fought for the most part since he blackmailed us into signing a truce of sorts. We honestly felt we had sufficient numbers to destroy him forever, but his penchant for destruction has not abated. Then, of course, you and your friend interfered. Enjoy what life you have left! Dhurgal and Clydweth are still alive!__ The inner voice seemed to be fading, but Duncan was not through yet. What did the monk mean by King's Justice? __If one demands such before a high king, it must be carried out regardless; a most onerous task. His will not be done until we are ALL dead! _ I can now see why he was a little upset. What did you do to provoke him? We found a mortal descendant of ours to do a little pilfering. Of course, they botched that as well. And why did he declare King's Justice against your clan? We were eating a child when we were caught. Before they could be stopped, they went before the King and accused us of that crime. We did not answer the summons to show innocence, so he went to our clan house. He killed almost all of us there. We killed his queen after we had raped her. For the cannibalism, banishment. For the killing of the queen, death. King's Justice was demanded by the slain child's mother. What did he use to blackmail you? The voice in his head had dwindled to silence. It seemed that he would get no more easy answers then he already had, but he now had a lot more than he had before. Shortly after, he was fast asleep, his sword by his side.

Duncan slept until he felt like getting up, something he usually did not do. He made a strong cup of coffee before getting dressed. His cell phone chimed. "This is MacLeod."

"Duncan! It's Dawson! I got your message; is everything all right?"

"Well, my head is still attached, I think that means something. I guess there was a quickening last night, but I do not remember too much of it."

"Hell yes there was one; it leveled the whole goddamn building. What in hell is going on here? We have some lists of immortals we never knew existed, amongst other issues."

"I have some answers; I got them from the one who I killed. When can we meet?"

"The powers that be here are not too keen on that idea, Duncan."

"That is tough. I am not telling what I know over a phone. You choose the place and time; I will be there." Duncan disconnected at that point.


	30. Chapter 29

Dawson had a serious headache starting from a combination of the past few days plus the other issue he was in process of fixing. That issue was going to be fixed in a hurry. He convinced the London and Paris cells to go back on line. He needed not only some watchers, but also some muscle to back them up. He was looking over the names of over 90 immortals; it was not their names that were of any significance, it was the fact that they were all in the same area. He had assigned five watchers to _observe_ the activity in that one area; for all the other listed areas, the matters of hand would be dealt with by force as necessary. He took 2 Tylenols as he contacted the other higher-ups regarding MacLeod. _This is going to be another long day!_

**Meath County, Ireland**

Just outside of Dublin lays an area as sacred as Stonehenge if not more so: Tara Hill, or Temair in Gaelic. Steeped in legend as well as fact, it is a very important site both for cultural anthropologists as well as tourists. Members of the Wiccan religion hold the place sacred to their hearts, while the government in the area holds the tourist revenues as sacred to their hearts. From what excavation work that had been accomplished, it had been determined that this site had much significance, from the Neolithic period to the general present. Probably the most noted item there was the Lia Fail. It was purported to roar once a true Irish king laid their hands upon it. South of the stone was The Mound of Hostages, an antiquity from a period when to assure peace, you made a relation of your enemy a guest of your own demesne. Even after September 11, the site was ascertained to be low risk for a terrorist attack. Most of the problems there stemmed from unauthorized acolytes of the Wiccan faith, or some modern age punks thinking it was a cool place to hang out. Meticulous upkeep was in effect for the whole area, due to it being so treasured to the Irish. The guided tours also generated a lot of money for the coffers. A proposal to run a throughway just on the border of one side of the site met with strong opposition. Tara Hill was many things to many people; some readily accepted, while others bordered on the insane. Some say the Lia Fail was created by the Daoine Na Sidhe or the Tuatha De Dannan. As old as the site was, who could say what went on there at any given time? It was dark when a solitary figure breached the simple fence surrounding the site. Dhurgal immediately felt better once he was there. He remembered it as thing that reminded him of a happier time. That was so long ago, though; he knew this. But it was here he was supposed to be. Once he was in the area of the Mound of Hostages, he felt almost elated. _Uncle, where are you? _ He had reasoned things through in a correct manner. He lacked the social skills and the speech capacity to go out and seek HIM. He grimaced at the thought of THEM, but he knew they would have to come back to this place. He was able to sequester himself inside The Mound of Hostages so that he would not be too noticeable. It was good that he was satisfied with this task, because he began to get awfully tired. He lay down in his place of concealment, crude sword resting on top of him and fell into slumber. Near the Lia Fail, a momentary temblor seemed to ripple through the menhirs near its location. All went silent again, except for a partially concealed figure sleeping in the Mound entrance ceasing to be unconcealed….

**Wrexham, Wales**

Brother Timothy arrived with no further complications. Once he had suitable lodgings, he began to wander around the general area. The tourist areas had all sorts of pamphlets and brochures to peruse; that gave him his initial idea. _What better place to hide if you did not dare show yourselves? _ He had already visited several sites, but they had various problems for someone to hide there. While some were too small and insignificant, others looked well trodden by numerous sets of feet. He had seen another site while inspecting these sites; he was told that some vandals had damaged a heretofore untouched cairn. He noticed that the people in charge of the sites took their job rather seriously. He still managed to get a tour of the site anyways. This one was rather large; in addition to the hillfort remains, he saw lots of menhirs and what appeared to be cairns. _This would definitely be large enough to stay hidden._ When he saw the allegedly damaged cairn, he felt a _something_ pull at him. The closer he moved to the cairn, the more of the feeling he felt. _This was the place where he was! _ Brother Timothy knew it. The cairn was surrounded by other untouched cairns; few if any footprints seemed to be in the area. He looked from the cairn site towards the city. All he now had to do was sense them.

It was getting towards evening that same day. Brother Timothy had no luck in his task. _They have to be somewhere! He can not hide his features! _He gave up for the day and went back to his lodgings. He inspected his sword after a while. The edge was still as sharp as it was and there were no nicks or damage to the blade. It was not just the fact that his sometimes compatriot was around; he felt the pulling to the west as well. _At some point, this will have to be settled. I will have no peace until then. _He fell into an uneasy slumber; his dreams were punctuated with fell violence as well as happier moments.

Suddenly, he snapped awake. He had no idea what had roused him, but the confusion was only momentary. He was around here! Brother Timothy could hide himself from youngling pests easy enough, but this was so strong it cut through what protections he had. As quietly as possible, he arose from his bed. He quickly mounted the sword and checked his greave. Then he put on his robe. It bore some signs from its recent heavy use, but it still was whole. He pulled up the hood and quietly slipped out of where he was staying. The clerk at the desk was too engrossed reading some magazine to notice his departure.

Brother Timothy was leaving nothing to chance. He only knew that someone with a _lot_ of power was in the area. Though he optimistically hoped it was some sort of ally, realistically, it could well be one of his enemies. Bronwyn was dead, but Dougal could still be around. Clwdweth and Dhurgal were no direct threat as far as he was concerned. As to where Sardicus was, he had no idea. The last time he had seen him was the day the woman demanded King's Justice. He slowly walked around the streets in the vicinity of where he was staying, senses fully alert. He _felt _it again! They seemed to be just up ahead through the side street where he was. He was half way up the small street before he suddenly heard another sound. By reflex, he ducked; the arrow meant for his head went over it instead. Muttering a foul oath, he unhooded only long enough to draw his sword. Now he had to watch out for mortals as well as whom he thought shot the arrow at him. He felt them on the periphery of his senses as he decided to circle around. Maybe then he could find out why they were shooting at him. He calmed himself as much as possible and made a supreme effort to hide who he was. Using some common sense elimination, he had an idea where the person he sought was going. He quickly crossed 3 more side streets and then paused to catch his breath. Then he walked up to the main street at a sedate pace. It was after midnight; even in a place such as Wrexham, nothing really was open at this time. It also followed that not so many people would be outside either. Brother Timothy quickly scanned the general area, observing then discarding visually all who did not fit what he sought. There he was, or so Brother Timothy thought. The person in question was nearly 2 heads taller then he was, but they seemed to have a more slender build. How should he approach them? He turned back to go down the side street, but got no more then a few steps when something hit him from behind. He went down to the street rather painfully; his sword clattered on the pavement. Even before he fully hit the ground, he was planning ahead for his next move. His assailant was on his back, but he still had freedom of movement in his arms. His left arm came back in a blur of speed. The elbow of the greave connected solidly with the person upon his back. It did not totally throw them off of him, but enough of the weight was gone so that he could partially rise. He batted away a sword with his left arm again, and then pitched the person the rest of the way off of him. Whoever they were, they were not only large of size, but very muscular. Brother Timothy lost no time; it took only seconds for him to retrieve his sword. He remained hooded as he backed away a few more steps for room to maneuver. Who or what had knocked him down like that? As careful as he thought he was being, he could have lost his head! His opponent looked a few inches taller then he was, but it seemed they were a lot broader. _Odd looking for a human being._ They held their side only for a second, and then raised their sword with a sweep. What they were wearing was more a cloak then a robe, but it still seemed to have a cowl. Whoever they were, they stalked towards Brother Timothy with a clear intent. He had no problem blocking their sword stroke. He turned his parry into a downward cut. When that missed, he whipped his sword back up to a rest position. As he looked towards the main street where he had spotted his target, he saw them head away, not down the street where he and his mystery assailant were. When his attacker rushed him again, he decided no more being nice. He blocked the second blow, and then sent his sword up underneath his assailants guard. They slapped the blade down in time to avoid a killing stroke and jumped back, but Brother Timothy was still in motion. He grabbed his sword only with his right hand as he armored left hand lashed out as a fist. The blow staggered his assailant visibly. He quickly grasped the sword with both hands, spun the blade, and made ready to deliver a killer backstroke. The one who walked down the street had a bow out and nocked with an arrow. Brother Timothy snapped out of the blow he was going to deliver and then went back to a resting position. "You missed with the last one. Do you want to take that chance yet again? Show yourself or its battle to the death, whatever the havoc." The bow wielder paused for a second, regarding Brother Timothy. They then replaced the arrow in their quiver. "I seem to recall the one who carried that sword. But without the means to see who you are, who can tell. She said you made an interesting target." Brother Timothy pulled back his hood. "That is very funny. What exactly do you mean by a 'she'? They look larger then most men I have seen. Perhaps I should consider you to be a Ap Hwywd then, since I can not see you?" Brother Timothy smirked at the last comment. The bow wielder visibly tensed as they threw back their hood. "I do not consider that to even be the slightest bit amusing! It does bring up a pointed question that my companion also voiced: Why are the defilers all not dead? Do you not forget your sworn vow?" Clywd's expression did not really change. The only way one could tell an emotion on the Daoine was having lived with them long enough to pick up subtle nuances of body language; they did not have the expression range of a human. "It has been a long time, Clywd. I only left seven alive that originated from that clan house. Four Ap Hwywd's are dead of those. Taeg still roams around as well. Do not think for a moment that I had ever forgotten the responsibility placed upon me." "That still does not explain why they are not all dead. Nor does it explain why one went after us in the cairn." "Why in hell did you pick such a hiding place? Why a coffin, even though judging by its location, you chose well." "What else could we do? As you fully well know, I would not be easily explainable to humans. Perhaps you may be able to answer another question. What became of the House of Gwynedd when they swore they would take the crown for their own?" "They failed and were wiped out. This land then was subjugated. Why the interest?" "That was the time we decided to hide in the cairn. It was a peaceful rest, until one of the Defilers came. Fortunately there was some power left in the area, or perhaps we would have been slain." "Almost 700 years have passed since Gwynedd cast their lot so foolishly. A lot of things have changed." "Your vow has NOT though! And you still have not provided an answer!" Brother Timothy thought upon that statement for a moment. How much of what had happened would be accepted by this individual? He decided to do the best he could. "Who is your companion and why did she attack me? It was a rather foolish thing to do." "We had no idea who you were." "Tell her to show her face to me. There are no females of that size. Why does she stay hidden?" "All in due time; you may not like what you see regarding that request." "Humans were all over when I was at Temair. There are a lot more of them now. They are no longer as ignorant as they once were either. The ones of our kind were forced to hide. I had no other choice but to force a truce in 1193 A.D. We could no longer clash in open combat. Colluill and Gwynach are dead, slain by my own hand." "Do not think for a moment you can dismiss your vow! It is time for us to go to Temair!" "Unfortunately, I can not do that at this time." "King's Justice was DEMANDED!" "There has been some unforeseen interference. There are a lot more immortals now. This is in addition to the mortal's becoming far more learned and dangerous. Bronwyn is also dead, slain by a youngling pest." "How could that possibly be? We have vastly more power then they do!" "It also seems we have a lot more arrogance then they do as well. By forcing this truce upon Clan Ap Hwywd, I also restricted the conditions under which combat could occur. It was for the greater good. Unfortunately, the youngling pest that killed Bronwyn was researching the origins of the same rules." "Well, it seems you have made a mess of some things! What were you doing all the years since we were resting?" "A number of things: I was pondering the situation with those defiling bastards and how to best deal with it. I knew sooner or later, they would violate the truce. They sent a mortal to steal some things from me. They took my crown." "And what of them? How did they fare?" "The thief is dead. The items taken from me are under control of another youngling pest. He is a friend of the one who killed Bronwyn. As soon as those matters are cleared up, then I will go to Temair. I will have no peace until I do." Clywd's companion chose at this moment to pull back her head covering. She leered at Brother Timothy, but the smile failed to bloom in her eyes. They burned with a barely contained fury. The leer, considering her facial features, was more of a grimace. Brother Timothy was surprised, but only for a moment. His countenance became grim as he glowered back at Dactal. "I thought we slaughtered all of you; how did one continue to live? The speech caused Dactal to snarl low and deep. She took a step towards Brother Timothy. "You butchered all of us! You are only slightly better then the Defilers!" A flicker of lightning crackled up Brother Timothy then dissipated. "You were wise to hide her from me so long ago, Clywd. You suffer the company of a Pict?" "She is the best of companions I could find, Ardis. It I not as if I have many choices. We were turned out of where we went to find shelter; those people were scared of us for some reason. Dactal struck one of our hosts; they seemed to be very interested in her." "I could imagine; she would be more in demand then even you. Modern day scientists would never let her go." Brother Timothy looked at Dactal. "I take it that you are also immortal? Oh, well, so be it. Taeg is still out there I believe. We will need all the help we can gather. Before we can go to Temair, I must retrieve those items and talk to the youngling pest that interfered. What will you do for lodgings, Clywd?" "I am not sure what to do. We can't go back to the cairn where we were. Is there any place we can go where we will not be the subject of unwanted scrutiny? "Brother Timothy thought for a second. _I doubt they would want me back there. But where else could Clywd and Dactal be hidden?_ He could not think of a better spot. "I think I know where you might be able to stay. This is going to take a lot more explaining though." The three walked together backed to where Brother Timothy was staying. Brother Timothy began to explain the concept of hit dice and other ludicrous things they would need to understand…..

**Rome, Italy**

Their supervisor sat behind their desk, and he was not pleased. Facing him were two nondescript men who looked the worse for wear. Brother Leon still had an Ace bandage on his right forearm, but Brother Sebastian looked a lot worse. The left side of his face had some bandages upon it. The visible skin in that area was bruised as well as lacerated. It almost looked as if someone struck them with their hand and left an impression. After shuffling some papers upon his desk, the one in charge spoke. "Welcome back to Rome. How is your back, Brother Leon?" "It is fine, sir. The muscle relaxants helped with the sprain."

Then the supervisor's expression became sterner. "You were given every available resource of the church to accomplish the task set before you. All that was needed was to retrieve property that belongs to us! Instead, three Brothers are in the hospital, with one in the ICU. I want an _answer_ for this failure to complete your assigned task!"

Brother Leon spoke. "We did find and accost the target, sir. We were assailed by a third party."

"I read your report, Brother Leon. Attacked by a figure in monastic robes…with a sword? Consider all the years of instruction you have had. Even you have to admit that this is totally ludicrous!"

"Sir, I am a loyal servant of the Church. Had I not seen it myself, I would not have believed it. He destroyed our car with the sword; Brother Brutus got his skull fracture from the self same item."

Brother Sebastian spoke. "He denigrated our Order and our mission in both English and perfect Latin. He spoke it as if he had done so all his life."

"What sort of sword did he use then?" The supervisor had a dangerous glint in his eye, as if he was paying out rope for a hanging.

"This one, sir," Brother Leon proffered a book to his superior. "This is exactly what he wielded."

The superior looked at the picture. "You would have me believe that you were attacked with an artifact? You were given pistols for your protection."

Brother Sebastian spoke again. "He was wearing a brown robe that would be the habit of a monk, sir, but the bullets did not penetrate his robe. As to the sword, Brother Brutus took pictures before he suffered his injuries."

The superior leafed through the pictures in the report. Scoff as he might at their story, there were two clear pictures of the sword gripped in someone's hand. There was no mistaking it for anything else then what the book of pictures showed. _This is a holy artifact of…._He looked at the book…._The Monastery of Saint Timothy…..how can that be? _"How did you get a hold of these pictures?"

Brother Leon spoke. "Brother Svengaard showed us how to print them. He was still not ambulatory yet, so he could not be here. He also gave us what the monk wrote in his notebook. That is with our report as well, sir."

"Though I admire your proactive actions regarding this matter, perhaps in the future, you should leave the evidence gathering to those not as…involved in the matter you address. You are dismissed!" The superior dispensed with the usual formalities regarding this issue. His attitude towards the two Brothers was thoroughly feigned. He already perused the report they had given and made his own decision. He intended to research this information himself using various means not available to even to the Defensor Fidei or the public. For some reason, he had a very disturbing feeling about this….

He started in the early evening hours. First, he dealt with matters more or less in the public eye. The sword was first. It was easy to track down due to its unusual size and hue. He scanned a metallurgical test done on the item some time ago. It was an esoteric mix of various metals and inordinately heavy for its size. As to the one who wielded it, he had no identifiable pictures, but he had an artist's sketch of what they said they saw. First he was going to research the sword. He looked at a picture of 'The Massacre of the Heretics'. That was near 1000 years ago. The sword was plainly visible along with a monastic figure with a halo over their head. Another reference in picture was approximately 150 years later. A monk looked like they were being burned at the stake. He chuckled internally at the paintings. It was almost amusing to see the massive superstition running rampant in that age. Next, he scanned the sketch of their attacker and used it for a search. That got a few hits, and one was recent. Brother Andrew…oh yes…he was sent away for being too …zealous. Actually, the superior would have promoted him for his work, but politics trumped the better good even in the service of God. Brother Andrew's picture was in excellent detail. _Why have they not curtailed his access? _He decided to worry about that another time. Another possible match had to be a coincidence. The picture looked like an individual in a painting. The Massacre of the Heretics was somewhat known in the circles here. The artist was no Michelangelo, but the work was decent in quality. The painter was a Monsignor at The Monastery of Brother Timothy, but that was a long time ago. _Almost 1000 years ago! _ The sword was from the same place. _That is odd,_ he thought. The picture also resembled the Monk burning in the flames of the later painting. He shook his head in silent ridicule of their ignorance. That was it for the material in the more or less public domain. Where he was going now was a database in the very privileged domain. Very few had access to this archive, not even the Pope. He not only had to enter his password two times, but he also submitted to a retinal scan. Finally, he was in. This was a special archive that contained all sorts of information that would not be well received if it were available for public scrutiny. It was decided at the same time the public archives were digitized, these would be as well. This restricted database held all sorts of dirty little secrets, from internal memos of sorts regarding one Galileo Galilei to documents regarding The Knights Templar to 'forgotten' books that somehow got excised from the modern bible. He would start with a date range he felt was around the time they wrote in Latin as he saw written here. He entered 1400-1500 and did a search. The search turned up a rather large number of hits; the church was always a lot more thorough then many thought, especially in matters of the true faith. There was a plethora of hits from his query though; it would take some time to check them. _Brother Lucien?_ He had Latin instruction in school, but whoever wrote this had full mastery of the language. Just for the hell of it, he typed in Brother Lucien. He came up with only a fistful of hits. He started reading. Brother Lucien was of the same rank as he was. They were dutiful in their efforts to find heresy and they had many successes. The superior at times winced when he read of some of his ancestors alleged 'successes' in rooting out heresy. How many of them had actually been innocent? _Probably most all of them, _he thought. He read of Brother Lucien's birth and life and swearing allegiance to Mother Church. By 1408, they were a Defensor Fidei, and on 1411, they were made a superior. He was so intent on reading, he only failed to notice he was out of hits when he had read the last entry. No mention of his death or any information after his death. It was as if someone swept him under the rug. He thought for a second. Brother was Frater in Latin. A search using Frater Lucien turned up two more documents. The first was an order sending Brother Lucien off to someplace in England. It did not say where, but gave a departure date. It also gave no date of return. The last entry took some time to load. It contained scans of two pieces of parchment and some annotations. The first piece of parchment was odd. It stated that five Brothers were penitent before God. Brother Lucien had signed it. The second piece of parchment had a hole at the top and some dark discolorations. On the second piece was beautifully written the following:

Raptor mortuus insum hic causasuus nex pro furta quod interficio in nomini Deus, totus gratia unus crux crucis.

An rudimentum eramno ut reverto…totus nusquam Frater Lucienus furta ero sinq per letalis haud magis…

Haud magis pacis quod pietas. Sequens vos mos cignosco melior insque quo vos pacisor bonus quod verus fides. Ego mos pacisor bellum ut vestri pius. – Frater Timothy

The superior blinked and stared at the screen. He knew enough of Latin to know that this was not a nice missive. A powerful translation program soon rendered the Latin into English. The superior felt a chill run up his spine as he read it.

The dead contained herein caused their own deaths for deceit and murder in the name of God, all for the sake of one cross. An attempt was made to return it, all for nothing. Brother Lucien's deceit will be suffered by mortals no more.

No more peace and piety; you will understand the following much better: Until you deal in good and proper faith, I will deal (war?) to your kind – Brother Timothy.

The monsignor stared at the translation. This was nothing less then a dire threat! Had this been uttered in the present day, the speaker would have found themselves committed for observation. This was almost 600 years old! He called up the annotations on the file:

(copied from original documents) Seven Defensor Fidei were found brutally slain, six by small poisoned crossbow quarrels and a seventh with their neck broken. The Two pieces of parchment were also recovered along with a broken regular sized crossbow bolt. It is concluded that after thinking Brother Lucien himself may have been a heretic, his name was stricken from existence and this matter closed and quashed. No further records of Brother Lucien exist.

The words glared at him from the screen, as if mocking him. Then his expression went from mildly frustrated to severely agitated. He looked at what the monk had written upon the notepad. It was _identical_ to the second parchment picture, word for word. Mental chuckles about massive ignorance began to be replaced by something that was disturbing. _This matter was buried when it originally happened. _He registered that. _Very few people have access to this information. _He digested that as well. _Someone wrote out a threat word for word for one in the restricted archive._ That was impossible! There had to be a rational explanation! Before he could stop himself though, his mind voiced an irrational explanation. _The same person wrote both warnings._ That was preposterous! Almost 600 years separated the two incidents. Perhaps a hacker had broken into the system? That would explain it. _It might explain the message, but not the attack upon the Defensor Fidei._ The superior sighed. A hacker sounded like a good explanation, but he knew that was not the case. Passwords were cycled every week and even if they were compromised, there was a retinal scan to get past. He sat deep in thought for a moment. Perhaps he had a better way to approach this. He had nothing to lose by trying it, and perhaps he could get a conclusion that was more settling in this modern day. He pulled the file on a certain Defensor Fidei that had been sent away. This was perfect! Someone who would strive to get back into the good graces of the Church, but someone to blame if more nonsense surfaced. He found their public key and sent an encrypted message. Feeling he had the matter well in hand, he retired for the evening. In his dreams though, the words of Latin laughed at him in a cruel manner, as if there was more to the missive then the words….

Once the watchers had a purpose, things fell quickly into place. Their retaliation was at once swift and brutal but also systematic. A scan of the new lists revealed that the immortals listed were clustered into only three geographic areas. Lodz, Poland and Paris, France were by far the easiest locales. The third geographic area covered most all of Wales and a portion of the UK. As soon as the London and Paris HQs were back up and running, two tasks were simultaneously carried out. A search for the listed immortals went hand in hand with verifying any questionable watcher cells. Lodz was the easiest by far. The alleged watcher enclave there had not existed for years. As quickly as possible, it was re-activated; other members of the group scouted Warsaw for a HQ site. Paris, France was also easy to deal with for a different reason: Most of the immortals listed in that area were dead. The watchers ran a few others to ground. They had no problem in getting the rest of the information they needed. There were still a few watchers that had colluded with these people; as fast as names were found was as fast as they were posted with an alert. There were none of the listed immortals left in Paris. Their attack upon Brother Timothy had gotten rid of the last of their ranks. The watchers were able to seize a lot of information in Paris, which helped them in NYC. In NYC, it was a simple matter to backtrace from where the attackers had arrived. Two immortals were found on the list and despatched. Only 3 small NY watcher cells had been compromised, but it had been three too many. Other members in the upper watcher hierarchy began to implement new rules to prevent this from happening again. The Wales and UK area was a different matter entirely. One alleged watcher cell had 3 immortals living in the location, one with a watcher tattoo on their arm. That one had reached for a firearm and a firefight ensued. Two watchers and 3 immortals dead. As soon as a cell area was cleared, it was repopulated as quickly as possible with loyal help. Another cell had not been in existence for decades; the last watcher there died of old age. A tense confrontation occurred between the watchers and the listed immortals found in the area, but a truce was reached; this group of immortals had not been aware of much outside of their area anyways. The deadliest confrontation was in an area south of Kings Langley called Watford. The database said eight immortals lived in this area, but there was a large watcher cell. Two watchers pulled up to the area and got out of the car. One was cut down by a high powered rifle. The second one pulled his dying partner into the car and they roared away. Less then 12 hours later, another car approached. This time four watchers got out of the car and immediately took cover. One was shot by the rifle again, but they were wearing armor. They quickly got on a cell phone. More shots were fired from a large manor house at irregular intervals, and then a nondescript helicopter showed up. As soon as another shot was fired, the helicopter fired back at that location with rockets. Soon, the manor house was a flaming ruin. Watchers moved in and despatched the immortals they had found. It was ascertained that the watchers that had been there had been murdered by the immortals present. Another list seemed to be of immortals they had killed. A similar situation occurred north of Kings Langley in Hemel Homestead. Watchers with RPGs took care of the contingent inside, but not until more watchers lay dead. Six immortals were also found and despatched. They found two watchers still alive; like in Paris, they got a large amount of information from this cell. The two watchers found alive were tossed out of the organization in disgust. Several suspicious cells in Ireland were questioned, but no betrayal was found from there. The information captured on a large group of immortals was perplexing and amusing at the same time. Five watchers went to that general area for observation, but the general matter in itself was kicked up the line back to Dawson. The watchers' proactive approach once they had the needed information put an end to most all of the trouble which could have exposed them all. Things started to fall back to normal.

**Near The Monastery of Saint Timothy, Present Day**

It was early evening as Clydweth sat enjoying her repast. Taeg had eaten his share as well, but for some reason Taeg seemed agitated. She shrugged as best as she could while wearing the armor and helm she was wearing. She had suffered a grievous injury at the hands of HIM. This was where he cowered. She would not be denied this time! As darkness fell, she strode with purpose to the back of the monastery. Taeg capered around her with glee, but the others with her seemed not focused on the task at hand. They either gave her reproachful looks or talked into little devices they carried. She stopped in their graveyard. She planted the remnants of the child she had killed into the ground; a severed arm looked like an obscene tree. She littered the child's entrails over several gravestones and then laughed at the vandalism as she headed to the rear entrance. When she got there and ordered those with her to pry the door open, they held back and refused. She glowered at them, and then went to open the door herself. The hinging that was there proved very hard to remove, but even after that, the doors would not budge. As hard as she pulled on them, they had no give. She next tried to pry them open by using her sword, but that had no effect either. She then noticed that the door had markedly changed from the last time; the hinges had become ornamental. The opening mechanism was internal within the doors. The doors only looked like wood because of the laminate upon them. She struck at the doors repeatedly but accomplished nothing. She gave them one last kick before she abated. As she calmed down, she felt a something from deep inside her, calling to her. She turned away from the door and headed away form the edifice. The ones with her who refused to help her before now were more then happy to assist. They got her into a car and she left the area of the Monastery, never to return…

Dawson was drinking some coffee and reading the paper when simultaneously two watchers showed up to report on their progress and the phone rang. "This is Dawson." "Sir, we have most of the affected cells under control. We lost a few more watchers, but most all on those lists that have not been found are dead." The person on the phone paused for a second. "There should be two watchers there carrying a full report, as well as a list of found immortals. There is one last area of contention, but we did not know what to do, so we currently have it under observation only." "What is the situation there?" "You had better hear it from the watchers that are there now." "Fair enough, talk to you soon." Dawson hung up the phone and greeted the two watchers. One immediately gave Dawson a report, He called up the lists Laskey had sent and started updating information. Then he looked at the two again. "What sort of issue has come up regarding this immortal concentration? You were told to verify, and then either take control of the area or reduce its potential threat." The two watchers looked at each other rather nervously. "Sir, have you ever played a game called Dungeons & Dragons?" Dawson looked at both of them. "What? What does this have to do with that large group of immortals you have not curtailed?" One of the watchers placed a second report on Dawson's desk. "Some of the deceased immortals from that area of large concentration were killed at the northern and southern points that gave us so many problems. The ones that remain there are…playing a variant of this game." Dawson was speechless for a second. "What in hell do you mean? Like that Tolkien crap and such?" "Yes, sir. We were told to tell you about it in person; our supervisor did not think you would believe him." Dawson shook his head while he looked a bit amused. "What is the status there, then?" "Sir, we have five watchers observing them at this time. They have orders not to contact anyone. Our supervisor decided to kick this matter up to you." "Gee, thanks!" Dawson laughed after making the comment. "I was only kidding. Tell the watchers there to keep observing for the moment. I will have to bring this matter up for discussion." Dawson dismissed them, and then went back to the list of immortals. _If we attack that many in one spot, that would start another war. I suppose we are going to have to approach them and deal with it as the chips may fall. We can't have another mess like this happen again._ Sometimes, Dawson hated his job. He picked up a phone and called Duncan.

"This is Duncan."

"Hello, MacLeod. This is Dawson. How are things on your end?"

"They are going pretty well. I am going back to Paris today. I expect Amanda is bored by now." He laughed at the thought of that. "That means I better get back there soon, before she sets off on another quest. How are things doing there?"

"Well. We are getting back on our feet slowly but surely. The Watcher Council may reconvene pretty soon. We think we may have stopped the violations of the rules; what already has happened can be explained away without a problem."

_Is that really true, Dawson? Or are you hiding some information from me? _"That is good to hear. Are you going back to France anytime soon"

"I may be doing so; it depends on what the Council says. I have some other work to do, so I will talk to you later." Dawson broke the connection_.  
_

Duncan remembered the first time he met Dawson. Dawson had intervened so that two of his watchers would not be seriously injured. Since that time, they called each other friend, but there were times that Duncan wondered about that. This was one of those times_. What was he not saying to me?_ That, however, was a two way street. Duncan had not been fully truthful regarding what he knew either. He still did not have all of the answers, but he had a lot of them so that he could piece together what happened. Hwywd and Anon had been Celtic clans. The chief of clan Anon had been raised to a High King sort of position. The Hwywds felt somehow they had been cheated. When their cannibalism had been discovered, a judgment was placed upon clan Hwywd. The language that they used was odd, though Duncan could now understand it. It was like mellifluous song, but speaking it filled him with a kind of foreboding. He had not shared this information with Dawson. He had every intention of sharing it with Amanda though. He left to catch a plane back to Paris.

**Monastery of Saint Timothy**

It was early in the morning when a group of constabulary showed up at the monastery. The monsignor was awakened when they arrived. He followed them out to the graveyard in the rear of the edifice. A large area was marked off by yellow tape, denoting a crime scene. Specialists were bagging some items found stuck into the ground. "Sorry to wake you at this hour, Monsignor, but this is a matter of grave concern." As the constable explained, the Monsignor's face grew paler and paler. Several other policemen were by the postern gate of the Monastery, making note of the superficial but still noticeable damage to the door. "Don't you worry, Monsignor. This has become a murder investigation, not an act of vandalism. I think you might need to either put up a better fence or hire a watchman." The Monsignor returned to the Monastery. _What on earth had been there the night previously?_ Even though there now were some brothers on watch at night, what good would they really do? The Monsignor made up his mind then and there. The Monastery could afford to hire someone to watch the grounds around the monastery. He called the monks in who were doing guard duty and relieved them of that duty; he wanted no more brothers to be placed in danger. He then made arrangements for the night watchman for patrolling the grounds of this edifice. The brothers assigned to the duty were more then happy to be relieved of it, though; it had largely been a boring exercise. The war cudgels were put away; soon, all but one of the Brothers let the guard duty slip from their mind. Brother Andrew heard of the ghastly defacement of the graveyard soon enough. Now, he only had to wait to act on a secret missive given to him.

Clydweth and Taeg made it to Dublin without any further ado. Needless to say, both of them were kept well away from prying eyes. Those with them had a job to do; one last task to perform. Had things been different, they would have had more tasks to perform, but they were not. Dougal had not contacted them as of late, nor were they able to reciprocate. If faced with that situation, they were told to trundle their charges to a specific area of Ireland….Temair by the old tongue. As soon as it was dark enough, they went to the site.

Clydweth crossed into Temair. Taeg happily capered around her in delight. She knew she needed to be here, but what about HIM! She owed him plenty for what he did to her, and she was going to see that he paid. As much as she wanted to leave here, she knew that she had to come back here. She remembered their clan house from long ago, but she had been told she could not be seen in public. With a sigh of resignation, she wandered across the site, until she saw the Lia Fail in the distance. Her pace picked up in speed while Taeg scampered along behind her. _Yes, I know you, that which sounded so very wrong. _She looked around at The Mound north of the stone and headed there. She had seen something in the entrance.

She initially raised her sword to fight, but then she slowed. The man there was red of hair as she was. _Dhurgal!_ She ran to greet him, but he seemed asleep and would not awake. _What is he doing here?_ Deep down in her heart, she knew. Like her, he wanted to kill HIM too, but he was not prepared for that task, at least in the public eye. Very well, she would wait as he did, but where? She found an area with tumbled menhirs and inspected it. This would work for her purposes. She wedged herself in between an opening she had found. As she rested there, she felt herself getting very sleepy. Soon, she was asleep. Taeg scuttled around for a while longer, but eventually, it found a spot to rest as well. As it did so, another rumble coursed across the site, emanating from the Lia Fail. Again, it went silent after a few moments, but in its passing, a sort of static filled the

surrounding area; it crackled and sparked across the stones; none of the ones there could be seen by any prying eyes…..the area for a second had sickly reddish pallor over it before even that dissipated.

Considering all of the train travel he had done recently, Brother Timothy was becoming skilled at riding them. He had convinced the two others to come with him, though they were even more amused at this game played at their destination, as well as more infuriated. Clywd trilled out a sentence of disgust stating that no interloper could ever be a Daoine, present company included. That was when Brother Timothy told him how they depicted Elves and the like in literature. Clywd was so angry he said hardly a word the whole way to their destination. Dactal was simply puzzled, why fight if you were not going to kill? An offhand comment by Brother Timothy about Pict fighting skills drew a growl form Dactal and a nasty glance. Brother Timothy knew the limits of how far he could push the two, so he desisted.

It was a relatively short time until they were at their destination. Brother Timothy had no problem finding the forge again. From here, though, it would be rather tricky to get things settled. "Wait here and do not leave the area. I will be back as soon as possible." He got a nod from Clywd and a grunt from Dactal to signify they heard him. As Brother Timothy headed towards the forge, he did not see many people around. _That may work to my favor,_ he thought. There were a few in Anachronist garb in the area. Some distance off, he saw a car with two people inside it. I seemed that they were as intent on watching the building as he was with talking to whoever was in. He shrugged his shoulders as he entered.

He saw Faustus at the counter, while Percy was off to one side. There were three others he did not know present as well. Brother Timothy went up to the counter, placing himself in a position to watch all present as well as the door.

"Good morning Faustus. How are things today?"

Faustus glanced in Brother Timothy's direction then did a double take. "What on earth are you doing back here?" Faustus sounded harried as well as a bit cross.

"I am in need of some lodging for some friends of mine. Is it ok to talk?"

"The three there are like us, yes. To tell you the truth, only Nathan and Percy have nothing against you. You ruffled a lot of feathers the last time you were here."

"I will be honest with you: I consider your game rather inane, but it's that very reason why I am here. My friends can not be seen in public; it would raise too many questions."

"I would say that you might raise a few questions yourself, considering what has happened in Paris."

"That was in large part unavoidable; I found what had been stolen from me as well as the thief, but others interfered in the issue."

Faustus inhaled through his nose. "You smell of blood and gore and sheer violence, my friend."

"Well, Faustus, at times you can not be a sheep and live. If you were more often out in the world, you would know this. And regarding the ill feeling some here may have towards me, they attacked me first. My friends are not in any trouble in case you were wondering, but they need a place to stay; if there are so many immortals around here, then they must have places where they stay, do they not?"

Percy wandered over. "Brother Timothy, you are back! Nathan wanted to ask you some questions regarding what you left him earlier."

Faustus cleared his throat. "Percy, do not get too friendly with this person; he reeks of death. Ours may occur sooner then we would like while you are around, monk."

Brother Timothy stepped away from the counter. "I would not fully disagree with you on that count, Faustus, but there is a bigger picture here. If you saw my friends, you would be able to see that as well. Shall I introduce you to them?"

"Do whatever the hell you want, but I do not need your homicidal type in my forge!"

"Fair enough, then. I will be right back." Brother Timothy had not even closed the door before he saw Faustus on a cell phone. _Yes, this is going to be interesting._

Brother Timothy went over to where his two compatriots were. _Should I go there now with them in tow, or should I wait? _Both approaches had their benefits and drawbacks. There was also some danger involved, but nothing he felt he could not handle. He decided to wait, due in part to several other people entering the building. He saw Nathan in the crowd, which was good, but Caroline was there as well, not so good. Marion was also with them. _The language lover. This might turn out to be a workable thing after all. _However, in order to pull this off, he would have to be more or less honest with them. _Well, Ap Hwywd's have never failed to assail me with mobs of their followers, why should I not garner some equivalent protection? And who in hell are those two in the car?_

"Well, let us see what we can accomplish. It may be that what you are will assist you in finding a place to stay."

"Why do you think that, Ardis? You said they play this like a game, did you not?"

"Yes, I did, but there is one in that group that is fascinated by this language. I doubt any warnings I gave her registered." After about thirty minutes, he led Dactal and Clywd to the building and entered. He motioned them to sit in the chairs while he once more approached the counter. "Hello Nathan, Caroline, Marion. How are you this day?"

Caroline started to draw a short sword, but Nathan restrained her. "I am doing okay, Brother Timothy. Faustus told us you were here."

"I see it did not take you too long to get here."

"Most of us live close in to this place. It makes sense when you think about it." Brother Timothy looked over the people present. There were 4 there he had not met before.

_Oh, well, here we go_. "I have a couple of friends with me that would need some short term lodging. The thing is, they really can not afford to be seen in public. I know that I am not on the best of terms with some here, but this would be a good place for them to hide."

Nathan looked at Brother Timothy. "Why would that be so? You as much have derided the game we play."

"That is exactly it; my two friends would fit in well enough here so as to avoid notice until such time they need to leave." The group of immortals began to talk to each other, as if Brother Timothy was not even in the room. Percy ambled over while the four he did not offhand know had left. He had to get this squared away as soon as possible; he had other things to do. He motioned Clywd and Dactal over to him. "Clywd, you will need to unhood yourself. That may be the only way we can gain enough trust here to get you lodgings." The Eldritch speech he spoke was enough to silence most all the talking in the building. Then Clywd pulled back his hood and stared at the group with a sort of smirk on his face. "It is too bad these are not our enemies; they would not last long in battle."

"That is true, but we are not here to kill them; they should be able to hide you so as I can get some other things done."

Brother Timothy looked at the group, who were as silent as can be. Varying looks of shock and incredulity abounded amongst them; Marion was the most affected, Nathan the least. Nathan was first to speak.

"Who in hell is he supposed to be? I am guessing that is not a good makeup job?"

"No, it is not. He is what he appears to be. Dactal is also rather unique looking. Do you now understand my quandary?" Clywd spoke again, "I do hope you have not wasted the intervening years socializing with ones as these? Have they not seen a member of the true race before?"

"Err..no Clywd; your race is lost to legend. Consider the time reference. You stated that you hoped the Gwynedds would gain the throne; they failed to do so almost 700 years ago."

Nathan spoke again, "What is that language you are using? It sounds like birds or some such."

"It is the only language my friends speak fluently. It is one lost in time. Marion there was doing her best to understand it before. They are friends of mine from a ways back. As much as I have tried to avoid things, sooner or later they and I will have to travel someplace; they both need to be with me when I leave. I can not accurately guess how old any of you are, but I take it most of you are probably less then a few hundred years old. I am a lot older than that."

"Do tell," Caroline spat. "I for one would rather see you dead by my hand; you have not been truthful to us!"

"If I can trust you to put up my friends out of sight of anyone, I shall do my best to render the truth. My friend's being here should give my story enough credence. You see, things may be changing around here; I am guessing that soon, you will no longer be safe here as you have been; that is not of my own doing. It is possible that two men in a car outside are mortals called Watchers. They watch people like us, and they like to keep track of people like us. These watchers are probably not the happiest people at the moment because recently, immortals they never knew existed have attacked them. If you are of any group that attacked them, they will return the favor in kind. As it goes, with so many of you here, you can bet that they have you under observation. But, anyways, back to my original train of thought." Brother Timothy got a container of bottled water from a machine close at hand and sat down. "This story goes back a long, long time. The portion which has bearing on current events starts around 7000 B.C. or so….My name was not always Brother Timothy…."


	31. Chapter 30

**Barcelona, Spain**

_Brother Timothy._ Methos sat staring at a stucco wall in his tastefully furnished house. In his hand he had a bottle of Cognac. _If I drink all of this, I will be free of him for another day!_ But he knew it was not that easy. Despite the temptation, he sealed the bottle and set it aside. Once again, he read the story in the American newspaper he bought. The press was calling it a possible terrorist attack; New York City was on yellow alert. Methos had enough experience with quickenings to interpret the picture of the building with what looked to be a nice glowing cap on it. _That was a fucking quickening! _A massively powerful one, too. It had turned the building into so much rubble. _Brother Timothy. _ That name made the bile rise in his throat. _Had I known what he would force me to do….._ He had no real reason to blame anyone but himself though…who ever would have thought that their luck would run out…

**Bronze Age**

He rode with his other three companions, as feral and wild as man could be. They raided and took what they wanted; no one dared raise a hand against them; no one still alive that is. The idiot peasants were no match for the Four Horsemen. He was Death, while his companions we War, Pestilence, and Famine. He was exhilarated by the freedom they had; he thought it would last forever….

…they came upon a small village and exulted in the discovery. More plunder and rapine to fuel their wild hearts! A peasant tried to warn the others, but they chopped him down. Soon they were in the center of the small hamlet. They quickly looked around to see what they could steal. They all laughed as women and children scattered and tried to hide. They would take what they wanted and no one would stop them. After all, they were the Four Horsemen. The first sign something was wrong was when Pestilence made to grab a delectable looking female and pull her on to his horse. An arrow buried itself into the dirt not 2 feet from his horse, which reared and threw its rider. While Pestilence got up from his fall, spitting dirt and foul curses, the other three were laughing. The stopped laughing when they saw who had fired the arrow. By then, the woman who was the target of Pestilence had run away with a look of terror on her face. A man was walking towards them, not in any seeming hurry. He was nocking his bow yet again and he let fly. His bow had a long range; the arrow transpierced Pestilence through the head, knocking him flat. War gave a snarl and aimed his horse towards the bowman; Famine and Death followed; Pestilence lay where he fell, an expression of shock frozen upon his visage. As they rode towards their target, it did not really cross their minds that he was not running away. All they did was set their bow down and continue walking towards them. _To his Death!_ Death thought as they closed in upon their helpless target….at least they thought he was so. It looked like some long haired barbarian sort with some metal on his left arm. They reached around their left shoulder and drew a sword. Once more The Four Horsemen thought themselves invincible, so they paid the sword no mind. War closed with the man first; they brought their sword down in a deadly attack…..which was met head on with what the strangely armored man carried. War's sword had been cleaved in two; it was only reflex that saved his life at that point. His bronze buckler took another direct hit, ruining it. Then the four felt it; this person was another immortal! This made the other three left charge headlong at the stranger; another head meant even more power! They still did not realize anything was wrong: they were so caught up in their frenzy of victory, they did not see defeat in the form of a large sword. The man smashed Famine off of his horse onto the ground. Famine attacked with sword and buckler. The warrior met him blow for blow, ruining Famine's weapons. He speared Famine through his chest with the sword. Death charged the warrior, fury in his gaze; no one attacked his friends and lived to tell the tale. He saw War heft a spear and rein his horse around for another attack on the warrior. _If he takes my friends heads, I will take his,_ Death thought. He suddenly felt the presence of the warrior again, but this time it made him ill; it was like the worst headache he had ever had combined with a knife twisting in his gut. He recovered, but not before he had fallen off his horse. The horse shied away, whinnying in fear at the smell of blood. War was also affected by whatever the hell that was. War thrust with his spear, but the warrior seized it in his left hand and snapped it. Next, his friend War was felled by a blow from that same fist. The warrior ran them through as well. _This could not be happening! _He thought. _They were the Four Horsemen! People ran in fear of them, they were not the ones to run in fear! _ Death approached the warrior, his shield and sword ready for battle. The warrior was really not that tall; he was only his height. That was where comparisons ended, though. This warrior was heavily muscled; they had to be to carry what he saw; that sword had to be near five feet long and was as black as the night. _What sort of metal is that? _Death thought. No more time to think; he yelled as he attacked the warrior, sword raised to deal a deadly blow. It was no use; his sword _broke_ upon that which the warrior wielded. His buckler was of little use as well. The next sword blow he blocked with the buckler, but even the glancing blow that hit the buckler was enough to ruin it. The force of the blow was strong enough to knock him down. _The warrior is awfully fast,_ Death thought as his buckler was ripped from his arm. The warrior should be taking his head now, what in hell were they doing? The warrior flipped his buckler into the air and cleaved it in two with his sword. Then they lowered the sword and grasped it in their right hand. Their left hand grabbed the front of his tunic and _lifted _him into the air. The gaze he held was one of pure fury. It seemed that some bluish lightning was coursing up and down his frame. Then the warrior spoke something that sounded a lot like birdsong._ I don't understand what you are saying! _ He managed to croak out a few words before he was thrown back on to the ground. "I speak that language as well. Who are you to intrude upon my humble demesne?" "We are the Four Horsemen! War, Famine, Pestilence and Death!" "You have brought death to one of the peasants here; so brave you are, riding down unarmed people with weapons. You do not seem so brave now." The warrior laughed, but it was not a friendly sound. "Your horses are forfeit for your trespass here. When your friends heal, they and you will leave here, and not bother us again." He got up from the ground. "You can't be serious—"The sword the warrior carried whistled around in a killing sweep that stopped just inches short of his neck. "You trespass, you pay for it. I will let you even keep your heads….this time. Cross me again and I will kill the four of you." There was no compromise in the tone. "And the price for keeping all of your heads falls on you, since it seems you can actually speak instead of grunt like your companions. Leave and never bother me or mine again. Also know that by sparing your stupid little heads, you owe me. Never forget that…"

_Yes, how could I have ever forgotten! _Methos glowered at the wall, but it did him no good. _I still never found out how he made that sword._ Methos got up and paced for a short while. There had been a powerful quickening in NYC; he knew it. There was only one item left to know regarding who was killed: Which one of the ones on his list was it? No younger immortal would have that kind of power; not even MacLeod. He laid odds on that it was another Ap Hwywd. That meant that either someone for the monk's side had killed one…or…_Duncan maybe killed one?_ If that was the case, Duncan would not be too happy with him right now. They would be even less happy later when they found out more. That left only one option available: He would have to square things with Duncan somehow, _before _Duncan found out any more then he probably knew. _Well. May as well get this over with,_ he thought. He packed his suitcase; he knew where Duncan lived in Paris.

**New York City**

To anyone not aware, it looked like a simple get together of friends. There was animated conversation, a good sized buffet table full of things to eat, and people of all ages present. At a signal from one of the adults though, they and five others left the main gathering. In addition to the six, there were no less then four grim faced guards. The six gathered together in a study, while the four guards split up; two in front of the study door while the other two inside. External shutters were closed on the windows and the shades were fully shut. A few of those present poured drinks for them selves; one lit up a pipe. At last, the six were seated. One of the six was Dawson. The others were Watchers of senior status and had the ability to affect policy if not outright create it. Dawson got out his notebook and powered it up. "Here is how the situation stands as of now. We have control of the area of Poland, no troubles there. We gained control of Paris, France, no problems there either; most of the ones that were listed as residing there were wiped out before we even got to them. We gained a lot of information for that area. We have jettisoned 18 compromised watchers thanks to the information Paris had. New York City is also back under out control. The immortals on the list residing there are all dead. We lost some assets in the United Kingdom; several more watchers were killed. We killed about a dozen mortals and 14 immortals in process of pacifying that area. London HQ is back on line and we have either re-established or confirmed watcher cells across the UK and Wales. Ireland did not seem to be affected." Dawson paused to see if anyone had comments to make. A heavyset middle aged man spoke. "Was it necessary to kill the immortals? We have taken great pains over the last few years to avoid another war." Dawson replied, "These immortals were hidden from us until such time they were to be used against us. We managed to reach an agreement with some of them, but not the others. There are six on this main list that can not be found. I am giving orders to despatch on sight. They cost us a lot of personnel. We are meeting here in part because of a specific list we have, and also what to do with an unexplained concentration of immortals." Dawson first called up the small list, . "As you can see, there are only fourteen entries here. Four of the red headed ones are dead, Bronwyn and Dougal quite recently, Colluill and Gwynach some time ago. As for the other six here, I and Duncan MacLeod at least have seen the one dressed as a monk. As much as the two sides see some things in a similar view, I am inclined to believe both of these groups stand against each other. I am asking for recommendations on this short list." Another of the group spoke up, a well dressed older lady. "How much of this information have you shared with your immortal, Dawson? Not that I would like to imply you are compromised in your view of this situation, but you regularly consort with the immortal you are assigned to watch." "MacLeod knows nothing about what we are discussing here. The one called Dougal nearly killed me at the watcher HQ. Duncan took their head. If it is in agreement with all here, I will not divulge this information to him; I will keep it between us. I make no guarantee that he won't find out from other sources though, such as taking the head of one on this list." A younger woman was next to voice some input. "Why not simply despatch them all. That way, we will have no more problems." Dawson winced a little as he replied as fast as he could. "That would not be a good idea, Marianne; we are talking about close to 100 immortals. The demographics on them are even more interesting. Most all are under 200 years old, they have never had any watchers active there that have been recorded, and most live in a specific area of the town. Another thing that is interesting is that several immortals that were listed as living there showed up as being killed in these locations north and south of the town. It almost looks like they were being kept there for some reason. Also, not a one of them has caused us any problems. I am proposing a different solution." Dawson waited as the other six took up discussion of the issue. Finally, they went silent. The heavyset man who was George spoke. "I am inclined to defer to your judgment call in this matter, Dawson. You have done well in the past as well as now." The others nodded acquiescence to the statement. "Okay, here is my proposal. We need to openly contact them and let them know the score." He cut off the raised voices. "I will take an escort with me. This organization is not just one middle aged male missing his legs; it is far more than that. By sharing the information I have found with you, I would like to think you would also believe it to be that way." "What will you do if they turn out to be hostile, Dawson. I personally think you are taking a big risk here." Marianne was probably one of the least tolerant of immortals; her brother had been killed recently and a sister some years ago. She still did her best to be objective on such matters pertaining to immortals. "Okay, then it is settled. I have to go to the UK to contact the group of immortals. The information we have will not be leaving this room. Now, there are some proposals for making sure this does not happen to us again. This group, as per before, is open for discussion on this topic." As one, the seven watchers called up the appropriate documents on their laptops. The meeting did not break up until late. Dawson made travel arrangements over the internet before he went to sleep. _This matter needs to be addressed quickly, even if I have to step on a few toes._

"That in essence is why I am around. They or us; the matter needs to be decided." Brother Timothy finished his story. Contrary to what he had expected, there was near absolute silence. Clywd had pulled his hood back up and sat quietly with Dactal. Nathan once again seemed to take the initiative. "I think we can find lodging for your friends, Brother Timothy. I would not be inclined to believe your story, except you brought one hell of a lot of proof with you." Caroline was not as angry looking, but she still was not pleased. "Nathan, why should we even help him? What has he done for us?" Nathan thought for a moment, and then shook his head. "He has told one hell of a story, Caroline, and he brought along proof of his tale." Nathan looked at Brother Timothy. "In actuality, Faustus is the oldest here and I don't think he is more then 175 years old. What about you?" Brother Timothy hesitated for a second, bringing an accusatory glare from Caroline. "I have marked my time with many millennia." That got a low whistle from Nathan. "Now, what can you tell us about these watchers? I would not think anyone had any interest in us."

"I really am not conversant with most of their ways; I was not even aware they were still about when I found some of them." Brother Timothy glanced at Marion. She was doing her best to draw out Clywd and Dactal in conversation. _Too stupid to realize that she sounds like a fool,_ he thought. _As long as I can get what I need, so be it; as if I have not participated in other devil's deals._

Nathan got his attention once again. "I wanted to know how to best render this ore you gave me, any suggestions?"

"Yes, you need a high and steady heat for the initial rendering; lower heat levels for making what you wish." It was late before arrangements were made. Brother Timothy had his own flat, offered freely by Nathan. Dactal and Clywd also had their own place to stay, well out of the way of prying eyes. Brother Timothy waited until all but Nathan and Percy were there. "There is another matter to which I need to attend, but it may involve using some force. I have done my best to use what diplomacy I could muster, but it has been of no avail." Brother Timothy's eyes went hard as could be as he explained his secondary problem. "How many of you could you find that would be willing to assist me in this matter?"

Nathan and Percy looked at each other somewhat uneasily. "What if we couldn't find anyone at all?"

"Then I hunt them down and kill them if need be. I need what was stolen from me. This was how all this crap started. It needs to end."

Nathan once more was lost in thought. "Hey, Percy, we could call it a sort of quest!"

Brother Timothy brought his armored fist down on the table, heavy enough so that the sound was enough to make them both jump. "That would not be a good idea; this idea I have could have some blowback involved; any that agree need to be told the truth of the matter."

Nathan said, "You did not tell the others of this, though."

"No, I did not; I think they would be better off hearing it from you then me."

Percy spoke, "That is okay. I am getting tired of the quests we have here anyways. I know several who I could probably recruit." Brother Timothy rose from where he was seated. "As long as they will toe the line. We will both benefit from this if all works out well." Nathan and Percy both nodded their agreement.

Duncan arrived back in Paris without any further incident, but he was badly jet lagged. He caught the train to close where he lived, but after embarking for there, he did not let his guard down for a minute. It was only after he was reasonably sure he was not followed that he headed to his abode. Once inside, he tossed down his suitcase and unpacked his katana from its carrying case.

"Duncan! Why didn't you call me? I was worried about you!" Amanda ran up and nearly tackled Duncan.

"I didn't think it would be safe talking on a phone. Where is Gwyneth?"

"Oh, she is in her room reading I think. We haven't had much to say to each other these past days."

"I can understand that." Once Duncan was relaxed and seated, he began to speak. "I took the head of another Ap Hwywd in NYC. He was Dougal Ap Hwywd."

Amanda was wide eyed. "Duncan didn't you know how dangerous that could have been! He could have killed you!"

"He didn't, so that is of no matter. I have a lot more answers then we had before. I also think we can't fully trust Dawson. He is withholding some information from me."

Amanda flopped down on the couch. "Did Dougal also speak in this way?"

"Yes he did, and he can read it as well. It is Eldritch tongue, the language of the Daoine Na Sidhe." As quickly as Duncan could, he filled her in on most of what he now knew.

She was in shock when he had finished. "I had no idea that this was going to happen. The rules we follow were arbitrarily invented? Why?"

Duncan shook his head, "It has something to do with the abnormal violence you and Dawson were tracking, I think. As much as I was able to glean, there still are some missing parts. How has Gwyneth been these last few days?"

"As I said, we have not spoken very much. She looks like she has not slept well these past few days either. Gwyneth, are you awake?" Gwyneth came out of where she was staying into the living room. There were dark circles under her eyes to complement her overall bleary appearance. Her clothes looked slept in as well. "Hello, Duncan. Sorry to look as I am, but I can not get any sleep."

"That is no problem. I need to get some sleep as well. Sometimes jetlag hits me pretty hard. Duncan was asleep as soon as he hit the pillow.

…_..he had no idea where he was for the moment. The place was very verdant; green as far as the eye could see. He saw some stones__ of large size either singly or in groups. As he approached what appeared to be a mound, he heard voices. There was a gathering of people near a large single stone. He drifted up close to them as he heard them talking in that birdsong sort of speech he now knew. One of the people turned and seemed to be looking at him. There was no way this person could be called human; their ears were pointed, their eyes too large, their build too slender. Welcome to Temair, they said to him. What is Temair? The place of kings, a most sacred place, or it was once. Why am I here? The individual laughed. You are now part of this place; you killed one that was to be here, so now it is part of you. Who are you people? We are the one true race; The Tuatha De Dannan. I still do not understand why I am here. Even now, the corruption of this place assails us; they who defiled seek to gain power they were denied by any means possible. Even now they wait here; they wait for the king to return. We also wait as best as we can, but it has been far too long since he has been here. Those that wait intend to do the King harm; it is only hopeful that the King has brought others. Regardless of that, the King will have to face he who was denied the Kingship. HE waits here as well, the foulest corruption of all. They have defiled Temair! The speaker seemed sad, but it was hard to ascertain this; their expression did not really change. We now go back to our meditations regarding the Lia Fail. If you find the King, tell them they must go here to fulfill their promised vow…..the scene faded to grey mist…then reappeared. No one was present this time, but it seemed that things were moving in reverse. The mound near the Lia Fail disappeared and the Lia Fail stone was in a different location. As he moved towards the stone, he felt a sort of unease. It was the stone. It seemed to have a visage overlaid across its smooth surface. The face was not pleasant; it glowered at him with a grimace; its teeth were all pointed. Then the scene zoomed in upon two sundered wooden chairs set on a cracked stone dais. Once again, time seemed to reverse itself. The chairs became whole again and were now occupied by a man and a woman. They were both human; she was fair skinned and rather pleasant of expression while his expression was blurred…as was his face…..in the background, he heard chill laughter….grey mist once again enshrouded him….he was somewhere else now. He could hear and smell the fire long before he could see it. A rather large building was engulfed in flames. He saw bodies in front of the building and hanging out of the building; the smell that assailed him was not just the clean burning of wood, it was also that of charred flesh. Who would do such a thing! He saw two people walking away from the pyre. One looked rather odd…he could not discern their face; the other one was wounded and was limping. The first one was aiding the second one to walk. He seemed to home in on both of them, but the unwounded one was the target. Despite the fact they had no wounds, the person was covered in gore smeared all over his body; clumps of something stuck to his singed hair. His outfit was also in ruins. As he approached him though, the unwounded man seemed to stare at him with a piercing gaze, or so it seemed…...he could not really see his face….they also started laughing, but this was also no humorous laugh of the amused. This was more the laugh of someone enraged, or the rapture of carnage. Their hand came up to point at them…"You dare to interfere, you will pay a price… …the person walked off laughing anew; they paid no mind to the gore or other sickening things attached to their self….the grey mist occluded the scene…but it had no more to show him…just the grey mist….._


	32. Chapter 31

Duncan snapped erect from where he was sleeping. The normal disorientation one feels when just awaking was not present this time. _What in hell was that?_ _What price will I have to pay?_ Duncan shook his head as he got up and checked the clock. It was a little after 3 A.M. He went out to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water, but was surprised to see Amanda out there as well. As he got the water and drank it, Amanda spoke. "Duncan, did you have some sort of dream? What in hell is Temair?" Duncan looked at her. "I did; it was also of that place. How can we be having the same dream?" "I don't know! That guy seemed pretty serious regarding what he said though." As quickly as possible, Amanda and Duncan compared notes. They realized they did have the same dream. Amanda had a book open on the counter. "Duncan, that is what Tara Hill means in Gaelic, though the name is not much used anymore. It is in Ireland." "Used to call? How come that seems to figure? And I wonder what in hell is waiting there?" Amanda shrugged. Duncan had an idea. He retrieved the sack of goods Amanda had found and opened it. He took out the silver half circlet. "Amanda, was this the thing they were wearing?" "Yeah, I think so. She was wearing one as well." Duncan got the smaller half circlet from the duffel bag. "Yeah, that is what she was wearing." "Okay, now who was wearing these in our dream?" Duncan and Amanda could make no sense of it. "Maybe we should get some more rest and deal with this in the morning. It's not like these things are going anywhere." Duncan placed both half circlets together with the other purloined items. He bid her goodnight. He had no more dreams this time; something for which he was thankful.

Gwyneth was doing her best to sleep, but it was at best elusive. She had none of the prescription she had before; they would usually allow her to sleep, though she would feel groggy in the morning. The dreams would come whenever she felt herself drifting off. Though they were pleasant at first, they would become increasingly more disturbing and violent. Sooner or later, they would wake her up gasping. Everywhere she looked in the dream, there was fire and fury and destruction. She yet tried again to get some sleep…

_…she was in a maelstrom of destruction. Everywhere she looked, she saw only smoke and fire and the dead. None of them had died peacefully; many she saw had been decapitated. Even with the tang of the fire and smoke, she could smell something else; something that sickened her. While much of the bloodshed was fresh, a lot more of it was old and dried. She did not feel like she had a body, but she still seemed to move through the carnage. Thankfully, she was out of the area of destruction. She looked behind her at a building wreathed in flames. She shook her head, unable to understand why this happened. She looked forward again and suddenly she had shifted viewpoints. She was sitting behind someone on a horse. Whoever was in front of her whipped the horse unmercifully! They quickly left the scene of destruction behind. Where are we going? The rider in front of her turned his head. She gasped. They were definitely male, but they still looked a lot like her. We are fleeing, he said. We have to get away before he kills us. Who is killing us? Our enemy forever more; we underestimated how destructive he could be. We have to ride from here…and hide ourselves away…._

Gwyneth jolted awake, drenched in sweat. _Why do we have to ride away,_ she thought. _What happened there? Am I supposed to know why?_ There were no answers she could see, only another interruption of attempted slumber.

Methos reached Paris in the early morning hours. He got to his abode without any interruptions. He did not enter his house until he had checked the immediate area. Once he was sure no intruders were present, he entered. After quickly unpacking his car, he gratefully laid down on his bed. _I hope to hell I am doing the right thing,_ he thought. Duncan was his friend, but there would be no telling how pissed Duncan would be when Methos approached him. He decided to let that matter rest until he had gotten some sleep.

**Monastery of Saint Timothy**

Brother Andrew often burned the midnight oil; he kind of liked the early morning hours because to him things were so much quieter. Another reason was this was the best time to update his files on the other Brothers that lived here. He had quite a filing cabinet of interesting things. Copies of receipts from the Monsignor showed exactly how most of the Monastery's money was being spent. Here in another file, proof of a paternity suit against another Brother. It was Brother Timothy that occupied his full attention at the moment though. He had _nothing_ of consequence in that file. All he really had was the picture he had made of him and the results of the search. Why was there no more information? An icon on his taskbar beeped. Someone or another wanted to chat with him privately. He remembered one time he got such a message from someone seemingly pious and sincere; when he went to the site they listed; it was some pornographic imagery that made it look like a priest was sodomizing an altar boy. Ha-ha very funny. They would assuredly burn in Hell for that. He deleted the request. He was about to retire for the night when his e-mail alert chimed. It looked like a bunch of machine code. He was about to delete it when a box popped up requesting his key. _This was odd, _he thought. He retrieved his private key and entered it. The message opened up automatically. _This is from a superior in Rome! _ He replied back to the message as instructed. A second e-mail had arrived. Upon reading it, Brother Andrew digitally shredded both mails along with his reply. He retired shortly afterwards; he had some work to do later on. He went to sleep with a smile on his face. _I told you, Brother Timothy, this is far from over….._

**New York City**

Dawson felt a bit tired this morning, but he had an extra cup of black coffee. His mild weariness was nothing compared to what he had to get done. _Are you insane?_ He was going to approach not one or two, but as many as 93 immortals. He quickly needed to assess why they all were there in that one place and whether they posed a threat to the watchers. It was the last anomaly on their list; all of the other situations had been resolved. It was kind of a good feeling to be back in control once again, or some approximation thereof. His flight would be to London; from there, he had already arranged appropriate transport to his destination. There were six immortals on the main list which were kill on sight individuals. _Why were these 14 listed separate from the others?_ Well, from what he had seen, at least one of these had some extra immortal tricks up their sleeve. He was not sure what unnerved him more; was it the quickening absorption with no loss of faculties, or near instantaneous healing of grievous wounds? _Just when you think you got it all down….._ He put that from his mind for the moment; this would be a long trip. As the plane left land behind, Dawson dozed in his seat.

**Paris, France**

Methos awoke feeling only a little out of sorts. What remained of his tiredness was cast off as he prepared for the day. Sooner than he would have liked, he was ready. He decided to take his sword just in case; there was no telling in what sort of mood he would find Duncan. _For those about to die….._ He chuckled to himself as he headed towards his destination. It was once again sooner than he wanted before he was there. Without any more delays, he approached the door and knocked; Duncan's car was there, so he figured Duncan would be home.

Duncan was awake reading the daily paper in a piece meal fashion. He followed any story of interest throughout the pages. He also felt the tingling as he moved towards the door. While he placed one hand on the knob, his other held his katana ready to strike or parry. He whipped open the door to see none other than Methos. His wariness gave way to a look of vulcanous anger barely restrained. "Methos…..fancy seeing you here! You see any more red headed bastards eating people? They had something to say about you. They called you a liar!" Duncan's smile was anything but happy; though he backed away and let Methos enter, his sword was still ready to strike.

Methos slipped into the house, avoiding Duncan's gaze, but upon seeing Duncan's sword raised, he drew his as well. The sound of the two clashing swords seemed to reverberate through the dwelling. Amanda ran into the room with her sword at the ready, but lowered it upon seeing the two glaring at each other. "Guys, what in hell are you doing?" Amanda rolled her eyes at the two men.

Duncan's fury was at a full head as he spoke. "Why in HELL didn't you tell us what in HELL was going on! Do you have any IDEA how many people have died?"

Methos was silent for a moment, his gaze showing clashing emotions. He watched as a tendril of quickening fire curled up Duncan's frame to spiral off of his head into the air. The crackle of it was momentarily audible in the room where they were until it dissipated. "I was protecting MY head and yours, MacLeod. I can see that I was too late. You should have taken my advice and run, run like hell, but I can tell that you didn't." Methos lowered his sword and stepped over to the couch and sat down.

"MacLeod's NEVER run! And they know how to treat with LIARS like you!" Duncan stalked over to Methos and lowered his blade to touch Methos' neck.

"If it will make you feel better MacLeod, strike if you have the nerve…or put your stupid sword away!" To exemplify his disgust and lack of fear, he pushed Duncan's sword aside. "Yes, MacLeod's do not run. Maybe that will be what they scribble on your tombstone before all this is over." Duncan had calmed down a little. He shut the door and put away his sword. He sat down across from Methos, eyes still burning with fury.

Amanda spoke, "That's good little boys; put down the pointy—"Two glares at her from the two men silenced her. \

"Well, that was a slightly better reception then I expected." Methos smirked at Duncan. Duncan had his don't-screw-with-me expression on his face though. "I did warn you, MacLeod. I told you to run like hell and hide; I had hoped your 400-plus years on this earth would have taught you something. I guess I was wrong."

"You still have one HELL of a lot of explaining to do! You KNOW who those people are!"

Methos let out a long sigh, "Yes I do, Duncan. I had wished many a time I did not, but I did. Which one did you manage to kill, Duncan? And do not lie to me." Methos was considering that thought in a neutral way with Duncan, but when he saw a tendril cross Amanda, he was wide eyed with shock. "Oh, shit. She killed one too?"

"She did so before I did. The one she killed bit off a piece of her before she lost her head. It nearly KILLED her! YOU could have warned us!"

Methos stared at Duncan and Amanda, shaking his head. "I never would have thought Amanda would have had the skill. Amanda, you are lucky that the initial quickening did not kill you; they all carry a horrendous amount of power."

Duncan spoke again. "Enough to heal faster or to ignore a quickening?"

Methos nodded. "Who was killed?"

"Amanda killed Bronwyn, I think. I killed Dougal."

"That is almost unbelievable, Duncan, but you are here and I saw that neat picture in the paper. NYC said it was a terrorist attack." Methos laughed and shook his head. "Anyways, getting back to the topic at hand. I wanted nothing to do with them whatsoever. They were not really interested in peace; they only were happy killing any they could find. MacLeod's do not run; nor did the Four Horsemen. We felt that no one was our equal. During the bronze age, we pillaged at will; no one could stop us…..until we ran into him."

Duncan replied, "Who? The Monk?"

"He was not a monk then; he looked like just another Celtic barbarian. We should have known better. He shot Pestilence in the head with an arrow, and then smashed us all off of our horses. He killed Famine and War; I was not able to stand against him either, not with that sword he had. He cut my shield in two as he tossed it into the air. He ripped it off of my arm! He considered us to be no more than nuisances." Methos drew another breath. "He let us live, but took our horses for killing one of the peasants where he lived. He said that I owed him, and one day he would collect." Methos coughed. "Duncan, could I get something to drink? I will explain the rest." Duncan tossed him a bottle of water; Methos quaffed a long drink, and then continued as promised. "He did eventually find me, and told me what I was going to do…or else. He had a crazy idea; something had to be done, though."

"Does this concern The Rules?"

"Yes, it does. Mankind has had wars that have killed millions, but these are modern day wars. Back in the past, there weren't that many to kill."

"Do you understand this speech?"

"No, Duncan; I stayed the hell away from that neck of the woods for good reason. As I said, I wanted nothing to do with them; it was my misfortune to run across him when I did. He referred to the time that was before The Rules as Pax Immortalus; a good as a name as can be, I suppose. That time was at its end; when people get too scared or fearful, they become angry. The wholesale slaughter and havoc being wreaked had to end. They had watchers then as well; some were actually interested in us even then. I do not know how he did it, but the one you know as Brother Timothy forced a cessation of direct hostilities."

Duncan was no longer enraged; he was getting more information. "How in hell did he do it?"

"Duncan, I don't know. I think it was Dougal with which he concluded the agreement; up until now, I had not seen him or any Ap Hwywd…until recently. I became the oldest immortal, and I spread the gospel of The Rules around. The monk told me that if I revealed what went on when the agreement was reached, he would kill me. The two factions then proceeded to exterminate any watchers watching them. Out of sight; out of mind."

Duncan got up and brought back the satchel he had. "While I was still able to ask Dougal some questions, he said someone mortal stole something, but botched that as well."

Methos nodded, "That dead monk in the monastery. I knew he would not let that slide."

"The Monastery of Saint Timothy? How in hell did he manage to find that out?"

"Duncan, you would do well not to underestimate that monk and his capacity to find what is needed." Duncan pulled out everything from the satchel. Methos whistled. "I told you what I know of the past. Let me tell you something of the present. If those are what I think they are, you have even more trouble then you had before."

Duncan raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Yeah, it is. You stuck your foot into one hell of a mess this time, MacLeod. You and Amanda will not be regarded as anything but interlopers; neither side will suffer your presence no matter who you have killed. When he butchered their clan, seven escaped along with a furry obscenity. That made eight. He killed two and you two have killed two more, so that leaves four, three Ap Hwywd's and that furry thing. The ones who might have helped him, two are dead; Italy and China. One may still be trapped. So, in addition to the monk, he may have two others. That makes three. That will make for one hell of a battle when they decide to settle the matter. And they will settle it soon; at least I bet he intends to if the Ap Hwywd's don't. Who is she?"

Gwyneth was sitting quietly, listening to Methos speak. Amanda spoke first. "She is of the Ap Hwywd Clan, but newly immortal."

"I am NOT like them at all," Gwyneth said vehemently.

Duncan put the items back into the satchel. "How does this feud have anything to do with us anymore? Won't they find and kill each other now?"

Methos' expression grew grim. "You will not get off that easy, MacLeod. The monk may call you to assist as the price for your interference. Or he may simply kill you."

"I took Dougal's head; I will take his."

Methos shook his head in exasperation, "God Damnit MacLeod, don't you even listen! You got awful lucky with Dougal; you are lucky to be alive! You and I take heads; we kill only if needed; we prefer to avoid trouble! Right?" Duncan nodded his head. "These…immortals are only happy when fell havoc is present, they came of age in a time where diplomacy was still at a point of a sword, and they are more than familiar with carnage and combat; they revel in it!. Do you even begin to understand what I am saying! He killed 30 people in Paris! That was nothing compared to what he did in the past. You got lucky with Dougal; you might stand a chance against Dhurgal, but you would have no chance against him. Amanda would be no match for Bronwyn's sister; she is our size, Duncan." Methos paused. "I consider you to be a friend, Duncan, no matter what you think of me. You would NOT stand a chance against that monk!" Methos saw the stubborn expression Duncan had on his face and shook his head. He got up from the couch and finished his water. "I can see by your expression, Duncan that you will not listen to me. I think I will put that on your gravestone. "MacLeod did not run; now he is dead." As Methos was about to close the door, he said, "Keep in touch; you know where I live." Duncan put his hand on his chin as he thought about what Methos had said.

**The Monastery of Saint Timothy**

Brother Andrew made it to morning mass though he was excited about his meeting this afternoon. Finally, he was seated at his computer. After making sure no one was at the door, he went online into the secure archive as instructed. He split the window so that half the screen was dedicated to the files found in a query and a split chat window. The login and archive session were so heavily encrypted that he gave them nary a thought. At exactly the time that was stated, text appeared in the top chat window. The user name was hidden, as was his.

**User15:** Greetings, Brother Andrew, how are you this fine day?

I am doing fine. And how are you?

**User15:** I am also fine. Before we continue, you need to know that I am a Superior in Rome

_Kyrie Eleison; Christe Eleison_Greetings Superior sir!

**User15: **There is no need to be so formal, Brother Andrew. After all, you were sent away from us.

I still consider myself devout and pious to the One True Faith!

**User15:** Perhaps it was that zealousness that caused you to be where you are now?

I still remain faithful to God! That heretic smuggled a bomb into Rome!

**User15:** As it was confirmed. It was his treatment afterwards that drew our ire. We both know you remain faithful to Mother Church. I am faced by a sort of conundrum; I think it might possibly be remedied by your…fervent attitude.

Whatever the task, sir, I am up to it!

**User15:**Well, to give you some background on the matter, five of your brothers were injured some days ago in Paris

Injured? Have you not found their attacker and made them pay?

**User15:** lol….careful Brother Andrew…this is not the dark ages anymore.

I still think the attacker or attackers should be punished.

**User15: **Perhaps they will. We have a picture of their attacker; does it look familiar to you?

There was a pause as Brother Andrew looked in shock.

That is Brother Timothy!

**User15: **So I have also found out; is he present in the monastery?

No, he is outside the walls with a dispensation to travel.

**User15: **Interesting. Do you also recognize this?

That is the sacred artifact of our Monastery!

**User15: **We have it on good information that your brothers were attacked with this sword. Prior to that, they were insulted in both English and Latin. Is the sword present in your Monastery?

I will have to check and see if it is still there. Why did Brother Timothy attack them?

**User15: **That is what I want to find out. Determine if the sword is still where it is supposed to be. If not, then find Brother Timothy as soon as you can.

What should I do when I find them? They are not penitent in the ways of God if they can visit such violence upon agents of the church!

**User15: **Your fervency regarding this matter is to be commended, but it should be tempered with some common sense. I am hoping that there can be a conclusion to this matter that will not pose a conundrum. Though it may not be guaranteed, a positive addressing of this matter could get you back in the good graces of Rome...do not disappoint me Brother Andrew.

Moments later, Brother Andrew was alone inside the chat box. He closed that and continued to stare at Brother Timothy's visage for a moment longer. _I will get to the bottom of this_, he thought. First though, he had to see about the sword…

**London, England**

Dawson had been to London many times before, but as always it seemed, he found the place too uptight. He was far more at ease in Paris or NYC, but duty called. After securing lodgings, he got together with other watchers to plan what lay next. Dawson would go to that location with five armed escorts. Two of them had heavy automatic weapons; it would have to do. The purpose here was not to go in hard, but to approach the group of immortals as peacefully as possible; the firearms they carried were only due to what they knew of human nature, be they mortal or otherwise. Dawson had set it up so that there were no less then twenty additional people for backup in case things went bad. Having made the plans, it now only waited for someone to implement them. Dawson intended to do so the first thing in the morning. As he lay down though, his cell phone chimed. _No rest for me it seems._ "This is Dawson."

**Paris, France**

Duncan sat where he was for a long time. In his mind, he was doing his best to digest what Methos had said along with what he had learned. Try as he might, he still was having trouble reconciling all the information he now had.

Amanda flopped down beside him. "What are you thinking about, Duncan?"

"What do you think? I can't figure out a way to resolve this mess."

"Well. It is my fault because I decided to research the origin of The Rules."

Duncan looked at her, "this time I do not place any real blame on you. You had no idea what was behind the truth of the matter. How do we resolve this matter without any more innocent people getting killed? I am open to suggestions."

"Maybe we should talk to Dawson; they may have some more information."

"Amanda, I am not sure we can trust him at this time; after all, he is a watcher first. I think he is hiding something."

"And you aren't, Duncan? This might not be the time to be silent, you know. A lot has happened recently; it may have put both of you on edge."

Duncan sighed once again, "Well, sitting here is not going to solve anything." He dialed Dawson's number. He went outside as an animated conversation ensued.

"This is Dawson."

"This is MacLeod, How are things there in NYC?"

"I had to go someplace to deal with a certain matter, MacLeod. I am not in NYC anymore."

"We have been friends for quite a while, Dawson. What is it you are not telling me?"

There was a long pause on the line. "Duncan, things have pretty much blown up in our faces the last few weeks; we only now are starting to get things under control. It is not …just me involved in what is now going on. As soon as things settle down, though, we will get back to researching the origin of The Rules. A lot of watchers have died, Duncan. "

"So have a lot of immortals! And there is no need to research The Rules. I already know why they were put in place; I haven't figured out how yet. I think we need to talk before things get out of hand again."

"What was it you said regarding The Rules? That is information that would be of value to us."

"What you are actually doing right now would be of value to me as well. The last time we were at this standstill, a war erupted…remember?"

"Duncan, it is not that simple! We had to do a massive cleanup in several areas—"

"What in HELL does that mean! How many immortals have you killed? Answer me!" Not only was the call disconnected, but a redial of the number denoted unavailable or blocked access. Duncan only sat glowering at the phone for a moment. _Where would he be if not the USA?_

Dawson set the now turned off phone down on the bureau. Though it pained him to not tell MacLeod what was going on, he was a watcher after all. He was a Watcher first and foremost. It was going to be a long day tomorrow and he needed some sleep. It came quickly enough once he turned out the light.

**London, England**

By the time Dawson awoke and prepared for the day, everything was all set to go. A small convoy of vehicles headed to where the immortals were, but they did not proceed there directly. A seemingly circuitous route allowed the vehicles to drop out of the line and take up positions loosely corresponding to the area in which the immortals lived as well. The Watchers were thorough this time; by the time the last vehicle in the convoy pulled up to the forge, the others were in place. It was a somewhat overcast day as the six people in the SUV exited. It was a shame Paddy could not be here, Dawson thought; of course, Paddy would have never agreed to what he was going to do. Dawson and his five fellow watchers approached and entered the forge. It did not seem to look like a forge to Dawson. He and the others were standing in some sort of foyer which had chairs along the side. The main area had some decorations on the walls, but a lot of the area was taken up by two large tables with chairs. The proprietor was behind the counter looking at some sort of periodical. There were also stools at the counter. _This looks more like a eating establishment,_ Dawson thought, but who was he to judge. The proprietor looked up from what he was reading. "Good morning! How may I assist you gentlemen?" Dawson spoke for the group. "We were not sure where we are. Is this place a forge?" "That it most definitely is; we make all sorts of Anachronist weapons and armor. Would you be interested in registering for our tournaments?" Faustus got several brochures and a pamphlet and set them down by Dawson. Under a disguise of interest, Dawson took the items and sat down at the table flanked by his five guards. He had already been brought up to date from the earlier group of watchers, so he knew what to expect. It seemed that these people played Dungeons & Dragons, but instead of on paper or on a computer screen, they played it in real time. Dawson fired up his laptop and called up the largest file. There was the proprietor, all right. His guards made as if they were animatedly discussing the content of the pamphlets, but it was meant to deliberately mislead. As fast as anachronists entered was as fast as Dawson connected a name to the face he saw. Three hours went by; Dawson had identified no less then two dozen immortals by then. He could not think of how to approach this matter, though. Even though a lot of planning had gone into this, it seemed that the plan was possibly not up to snuff after all. He would need to regroup on this matter. "Thank you for the information, sir. I and my friends will give it some consideration." Dawson and his cohort departed the establishment. Once back in the SUV, Dawson and his fellow watchers left to return to London, picking up the other vehicles along the way back.

Dawson had four senior members in video teleconference back in his room. None of them were pleased with what Dawson told them. Recriminations flew back and forth.

"Dawson, I said your idea was crazy in the first place, not to mention rather risky. Who knows how they would have reacted?"

"I still think we would be better off if they were all dead. They may start attacking us all over again!"

"We have no proof they ever attacked any of us!" Dawson rubbed his temples. "We have to give them the benefit of the doubt until we know otherwise."

"Why not just have watchers watch them as we have done before, that is, at least until you revealed yourself to your charge, Dawson."

"That is not going to work, either. At the moment, we have affected sufficient spin control to explain the recent violence. If you have 93 watchers watching 93 immortals in one place, sooner or later it will become public knowledge. With the number of fights that would be erupting in that general area, we could be exposed, and them as well!" This comment brought nods of assent. Dawson continued, "We need to find out why they are located in one spot, but I am not sure confronting a group of them would get things off right."

"Am I wrong, or do you have an idea on how to bridge the gap, Dawson."

"I am thinking we could have use for a mediator in this matter; an immortal." That set the remaining four off. Dawson waited for the expected diatribes to end, and then continued. "I have in mind another immortal; she is not as likely to take umbrage with the current situation. Tell me what you think." Dawson called up her file on the screen. The verbal animosity all but disappeared except for one pointed question. "How will you get her to show up without her asking what is going on?"

Dawson was in pure watcher mode; his expression became part chilly smile, part grim odds maker. "I don't think I will have any problem with that; she will not know anything until she has already served her purpose."

**Paris , France**

Amanda was mulling over a crossword puzzle when her phone chimed. She cast a perfunctory glance around the room; she was alone. "Hello?"

"Amanda, this is Dawson."

"Oh, you need to speak to Duncan? One sec and I—"

"I need to speak with you, Amanda, not Duncan. I am in need of your assistance regarding some documentation of The Rules; we may have found out how the cessation of hostilities occurred. I am contacting you in the hopes you can assist us without involving Duncan."

Amanda thought over what Dawson had said. "Why is that? He and you are the ones who are good friends; I know about the fun you poke at me regarding some of my more questionable adventures."

"You are less inclined to chop the head off of your problems, though; this issue needs a lighter touch then Duncan has, sorry to say. Can you help us out?"

Amanda thought for a minute. As much as she hated being put into this position, it was very tempting. _Almost like being a thief confronted with the treasure of a lifetime!_ "Okay, I will do it." She copied down the location info while watching to see if anyone entered the room. She closed the connection then exhaled loudly. _What in hell am I doing? Well, I am at least doing something!_ It was still early morning; if she headed out now, she could be there in only a few hours. _What do I do with her though? Take her along! Ladies night out! _She had a momentary lapse of conscience about what she was about to do, but it was washed away by her penchant for having fun. _They are Watchers. I know,_ Amanda thought. For a moment her eyes seemed to be drained of all emotion.

"Gwyneth, are you awake?" Gwyneth rolled over in her bed as she wiped sleep from her eyes. "I guess I am now; what do you want?" By the time Amanda finished explaining, Gwyneth was all for getting out of here for a bit; they both packed as quickly and quietly as possible. They were interrupted when Duncan awoke. "Good morning, ladies." "Good morning, Duncan," Amanda answered. "What are you going to be doing today?" "I have no idea; at this moment, I have hit a dead end with things. What about you?" When Duncan got no answer, he walked out the rear entrance to his house with a cup of coffee. Amanda gestured to Gwyneth with her eyes to get finished packing, and then she followed Duncan outside. She sat down beside him. Duncan had a sort of faraway look in his eyes as he sipped his coffee. Amanda was about to say something when he spoke. "There are sometimes that I wonder if what we do is the right thing. The more I think about it, the more I think Darius had the right attitude. It was strange in a way; despite his peaceful manner, he despised mortals for their mortality." Amanda did not know how to respond at first; Duncan rarely waxed philosophical. "Perhaps each has to find their own way to discover the answer, Duncan." "How do you do that when the foundation to what you believe no longer exists? There is no prize, and the rules were something created for the sake of survival. What enables them to go on? How have they lasted all these millennia?" "I have been alive for almost 1000 years, Duncan. It is only now that I realize that I did not so wisely use the gift I was given. You have done better for yourself in a shorter time then I have." Duncan hugged her. "You have been a good friend to me; I failed for a while to remember that Dawson is a Watcher first and my friend second. If you ever remember anything, Amanda, remember that he is a watcher first." "I will do so, Duncan. I intend to take Gwyneth out shopping today. She will be in no danger while I am around. She needs to get out of the house for a bit." Duncan looked at here. "Are you sure that is a wise decision?" "Duncan. It has been peaceful the last few days; it seems like there is no warfare on the streets anymore. We will be fine." "Okay, but call me if you run into any trouble." Amanda pecked Duncan on the head and went back inside. _By the time he figures out we are gone, we will be there…..sorry Duncan. _Her eyes had the same devoid of emotion look as she decided to do what needed to be done. _I am an immortal first…do not ever forget that…_

Cross was not the expression that would have described Duncan at this time. He knew by later that day something was amiss. He had no contact from Amanda and her phone was shut off. She had something up her sleeve. _I hope to hell you know what you are doing, Amanda. _He was nursing a glass of cognac as he perused a note hidden in his sword. The piece of paper had been folded up small and then lodged in the sword's sheath. He read then reread Amanda's writing. _Maybe you are learning something, Amanda, after all._ He made sure his sword was as sharp as possible. He packed his bags as quickly as he could; time was now of the essence.


	33. Chapter 32

**London, England**

Amanda and Gwyneth made it to London with no difficulties. After getting lodging for the night, they took a different train to their destination. _We will be there as well by that time._ This situation was peculiar, but Amanda shrugged off her misgivings. She had turned off her phone, because by now, a very cross Duncan would have left a few pointed voicemails. As much as she yearned to take Duncan into her confidence, this was overpowered by her need to glean what information she could from whatever sources there were to be had. She and Gwyneth got off the train at the designated borough. A guide to the borough allowed them to find their destination fast enough. _What the hell? An actual forge?_ Once more without heed to the warnings they were giving her, she overrode the misgivings she still seemed to have.

Dawson went with the same plan he had concocted earlier. Once more, his vehicle was the only one that pulled up at the forge. Five other vehicles were at various distances from the forge, its members in constant contact. Dawson got out and looked around. Things were pretty much the same as yesterday, except the place of business seemed to be busier then usual. He and the other five entered and sat at one end of one of the large tables. Once more, as his associates made the pretense of looking through the information he received yesterday, Dawson had his laptop up and running, putting names to faces as they entered the forge. Two other watchers were watching the train terminal for a passenger. It was not even fifteen minutes after they entered that his phone chimed. "This is Dawson."

"We have Identified the person you mentioned, but she is with someone else."

"What? Who is with her?"

"Despite the clothing she is wearing, it looks to be another female with red hair and rather tall. We perceive her to be no threat. Should we allow the contact to proceed or should we interdict?"

"We are too far along at this end; allow the contact to proceed." Dawson looked out the window upon the immediate area of the building as he terminated the call. Didn't there seem to be more people clustered outside, or was he imagining things? He did not have the time to worry about it; this meeting would have to come to a conclusion today. Shortly after he got the call, he saw Amanda approaching on foot with the other person in tow. _Time to get this show on the road,_ he thought. He got up from his seat and approached the counter. Faustus was there. He heard noises coming from behind the counter, but they were towards the back, he supposed. Some of the noise was from a computer monitor as well. It looked like a few people were in the forge area working. _That is not a bad idea,_ Dawson thought. Then he focused his mind upon his primary task. At one point, Faustus had only two other people at the counter; Dawson decided this would be the best opening he would get. Adopting as friendly a demeanor as possible, he spoke, "Are you Faustus Kensington, sir?" Faustus looked at Dawson. "Yes I am, sir; have you decided whether to join our tournament?" "Actually, I would be too old for that sort of thing. I am actually here on another matter that involves you; perhaps we could talk at our table? I assure you, it is a matter of import, and not something for public ears." Faustus shrugged. "As soon as I conclude business here, I would be more then happy to join you." Dawson moved back to the table and waited for Faustus. It was at that time that Amanda and Gwyneth entered the business. Amanda was not greeting Dawson though; her eyes were wide and suffused with anger. Too many of the building inhabitants were also looking at her, some with a bit of surprise, but most with looks of anger. Dawson saw hands lowering to grab weapons; one strung their bow. Even they were only swords and other such items, they could kill as easily as most any other means.

Amanda approached the building, all senses on alert. There was something about this she did not like. "Gwyneth, stay close to me!" She was used to that tingling sensation; she felt several. _Immortals!_ _One HELL of a lot more than one, too!_ She smiled at some of them nonchalantly as she switched her purse to her left shoulder. Her right hand rested gently but steadily upon her sword; she could draw it in a matter of seconds if needed. _Around this many immortals? Why did I not immediately confide in Duncan! Oh well, you got yourself into this; you better figure a way out of it! _Some choice words for Dawson came to mind as she approached the door and entered the establishment. Even as she did that, she picked up more tingling sensations from people inside. _What the HELL?_ Amanda felt the all too familiar rush of adrenalin course through her as she noticed that she was the object of too many stares. She watched as one of them strung a bow. Two others present at a counter had hands on swords. The person behind the counter was also staring at her with an inscrutable expression. Amanda saw Dawson seated at one of the tables, but as it stood, there was NO way she was going to sit with her back to the others reaching for weapons. "Gwyneth, do exactly as I say!," Amanda softly voiced. "Sit at the table, but make sure you are facing as many of those on the other side as possible. They are all like us!" Amanda quickly found a seat, followed by Gwyneth. Staring as balefully as she could at the other immortals, she addressed Dawson. "You son of a bitch! What in hell do you have going on here! These people are ALL immortal!"

Dawson answered deadpan without taking his eyes away from his laptop. "Just be calm and do not make any sudden movements; you will be all right. We needed some sort of intermediary to sort this last problem out."

Amanda turned her baleful stare upon Dawson. "You lied to me! When Duncan finds out about this, he will not be happy either. Also, have you looked outside lately? There are more people in the parking lot, and more coming in all the time. What do you expect to accomplish here?"

Dawson looked up from his laptop as Faustus approached. "You will shortly see." Dawson at once put on his friendly mask as he addressed Faustus. "Thank you for taking the time to talk to me. My name is Jim Dawson and these are my associates."

"It is good to meet you and your associates, but I am a busy man. Can you please get to the point?"

Dawson turned the laptop so that Faustus could see the screen. "As I said before, I am looking for Faustus Kensington. You were born and raised here. You are 177 years old." Dawson simply stated the information with no real inflection or awe; after all he knew of ones a lot older than that.

Faustus registered a look of shock for a second, and then aptly recovered with an amused expression and a laugh. "You would have to be mad to think someone can live to 177 years old. That simply is not possible. I bid you good day, sir."

Faustus was in process of arising when Dawson continued. "We know who you are and what you are. You are an immortal; the same as my friends that have just arrived. We are a special group of mortals. We are called Watchers."

Dawson showed his wrist sigil to Faustus. "Are you sure you want to leave?" Faustus ceased arising and sat back down. Now his expression was no longer amused, but guarded. He looked at Amanda and Gwyneth.

"They are immortal, yes. And you say you know them?"

"Yes I do, and neither they nor I mean you any harm. There is no need for weapons."

Faustus thought for a second, and then gestured at the others in the building. Hands relaxed somewhat as well as some swords went back fully into their sheaths. Dawson breathed a sigh of relief. _Well, that part was accomplished; on to the next._ Faustus spoke next. "What exactly is it that you want? We do not bother anyone here."

Dawson nodded his head at one of his guards. "Until a few days ago, we did not know you even existed. According to what I have here, there are nearly 100 of you in this same general area; that will sooner or later pose a problem."

Faustus shrugged, "It is not like we have any place to go; any of us that have left wind up dead."

Dawson looked at his list. "You mean like Peter Morten and Leanne Polk?" Faustus was surprised at that. "How do you know of them? They left here and were killed some time ago!"

"I don't know why they left, but I know who killed them and when. It was some time ago. They had it listed as such along with other immortals. They will not be bothering you anymore; both locations were reclaimed by us, north and south of here." Faustus considered that information for a moment. "Why do all of us being here pose a problem? Most of us happen to like it here."

As Dawson riffled through the pages of the database, he answered. "If near 100 of you are in the same location, others will come looking for you to take your head in combat. If there are too many fights in such a relatively small area, others will take notice; immortals and watchers could be exposed. That is what we are trying to avoid."

Faustus looked slightly saddened, but also relieved. "I guess this may put an end to the tournaments we have here on a regular basis; that is if people can really leave this area."

Dawson breathed an internal sigh of relief. This looked like it was going to work out after all. _As I said before, by the time she finds out why she is here, she already will have served her purpose._ Dawson was too busy to notice two of the immortals leaving the establishment. Now, Dawson thought, it is time for spin control in this matter. Amanda was glaring at him still, her features livid. Once she had Dawson's attention, she was quick to speak.

"You have the god damned nerve to use me like that! I could have been killed! 100 immortals in ONE place? What in hell were you thinking!"

Dawson inhaled before he spoke. "This was the only issue left regarding what has happened to watcher and immortal alike the last few weeks. We could not have a watcher-known group this large staying in one spot. Furthermore, it was ascertained that if we alone approached them, they would take it all wrong. With an immortal at our side, things went rather smoothly."

"And regarding the alleged information you had on the formation of The Rules? That was just a lie, wasn't it?"

"Amanda, I am under a lot of pressure from numerous factions. There were some who wanted to despatch them all. Would that have been a workable solution?"

Gwyneth took off her hat to scratch her head, and then replaced it. Though Gwyneth's eyes were wide, she looked around the room with no visible fear. Amanda's ire had cooled somewhat, but not completely. "Dawson, this is far from over. You best remember that…..Watcher!" Amanda took another look out of the window close at hand. Was it her paranoia groomed from centuries of being alive or were there more people in the parking lot. Another think that piqued her interest was that anywhere she looked out of the window, there was something there to block ones path of egress. If it was not a group of people, it was a vehicle or some other larger object. "Dawson, have you looked outside in the last few moments? You might want to do so." Amanda took some time to cursorily inspect where she was. She and Dawson and the others were at one end of one of the tables present, but the other table was mostly filled with immortals. Quick, furtive glances to the other areas of the building let her know that the group of people with her was almost completely surrounded; the only clear area she saw was from the table to the door where she entered. It was as if they were a point in space surrounded by a horseshoe, with the only exit being the place the horseshoe did not come together. _They may have the parking lot blocked off as well! _ That meant that there were no real escape routes, a really bad situation.

Dawson got her attention. "It looks like the lot is pretty crowded, but other than that, I don't see anything unusual. We have some backup if needed.

"Dawson, if you consider where the immortals are in this building, we are trapped." Amanda fell silent as three other people came inside the forge. One was stocky and short of stature with a beard, while the second one was tall and dressed in partial plate armor. The third one was a female only average in height, but decked out as some sort of forest creature. She carried a wicked looking spear as well as a short sword on her hip. Without a word, they added themselves to the horseshoe shape in the building.

Despite the lack of constructive things to do, Brother Timothy was not letting his guard down for a second. He had been busy while he was here. He was positive those people he saw were watchers; _You may be learning about people called watchers soon enough._ That meant that they knew about the ones living here. The newspapers spoke of some murders and property destruction going on. _It has to be either them or one of those behind it._ He had spent the last two days remembering everything he could about watchers. All he had to do is bide his time. _ All I need to know is who makes contact with you and when. _He had just gotten that information from two immortals. The description they gave left no mistake as to who was there. _They will not trust this task to their underlings; they will have to send someone of import._ They apparently had done so._ They could not exterminate 100 immortals so easily. _Like him, they wanted anonymity as well. The two also described two immortals with the watchers; they said it seemed like they were a sort of go between. He had called Clywd and Dactal, but he wanted more information. It was an easy matter to find someone with a means of getting pictures. The video setup at the forge allowed for this; in only a short time later, Brother Timothy was connected online to a video feed in the building. Clywd and Dactal were also watching, though they were doing so in silence. Brother Timothy gave a cold smile. It was the bearded one he had met earlier. _A friend of the meddler, I think…very good._ Brother Timothy's expression lost what little friendliness when he saw the dark haired female. _The thief! _This was even better than he had thought. What was she doing there? He temporarily put that from his mind as he focused on her companion. They were wearing a hat, but they took it off momentarily to scratch their head. The hair color of the thief's companion registered upon Brother Timothy as he saw her face. His eyes became something to be feared at the moment; along with a hiss from Clywd and a growl from Dactal, it made for a rather scary sight. _I saw her die! She is immortal?_ She was then Ap Hwywd as far as he was concerned. He knew how to solve that problem. _Enjoy your immortality while you can…I hope that it ill fits you. For a moment, he was wondering how it felt to just be born into the gift that was both a curse and a blessing….._

**England 1047 A.D.**

_...he and the brothers only learned of the sickness in the village when one of its victims was taken to the Monastery for care. He knew what needed to be done; saving this life was not the highest priority. Protecting the others from infection was. It seemed to be some sort of plague or other such sickness. He had created a place to put the ailing ones. He knew better __than to let anyone else touch them. As hard as he worked to save them, most of the infected died anyways. Over the objections of the other brothers, the corpses were first consecrated then burned. Three more of the stricken were delivered to their monastery. He was surprised when Monsignor Michel approached him. Please do what you can, Brother Timothy. This is Agnetha. That stirred him out of a mental torpor that comes with fatigue. Agnetha was not long for this world, he thought. Her clothes reeked of human excrement and vomit; her arms were black with infestation of the disease. To add to the stench, several buboes had suppurated and burst. He quickly tended to the other two as quickly as possible. Monsignor Michel, I am in need of your assistance! I need you to help me move Agnetha from here! This is where you are keeping the ill, Brother Timothy. Is this not the place where she will get the care she needs. Brother Michel, I have not the time to argue with you! We need to carry her off NOW! Brother Michel knew what he was; at times that pained him and his existence. No matter how much he had tried to explain what he was to Monsignor Michel, it did no good. The Monsignor was convinced that Brother Timothy was an avenging saint sent from heaven. He finally got his co-operation, and Agnetha was moved to a secluded spot in the monastery. Why are we doing this, Brother Timothy? You will see, Monsignor. As it went, there was not long to wait. Agnetha took her last breath very soon, and then slumped dead on the pallet. Monsignor, was Agnetha a true blood sibling of yours? No, Brother Timothy, she was taken in when her parents abandoned her. Monsignor, what you will see here in a second must be revealed to no one. The Monsignor nodded. Agnetha's eyes suddenly popped wide open as she took in another breath. It was almost like a river flowing; the buboes and infection simply ceased to be. Agnetha tried to sit up, but Brother Timothy restrained her. Where am I, she almost screamed. Am I in hell because of a penance forgotten? No, Agnetha, you are not. The Monsignor was white as a sheet. She was dead, I saw it. Yes you did Monsignor, she was dead. Immortals do not become so until after they have died. Agnetha is now like me; she is your sister no more. She cannot be seen at this place again either. Is there not a place close to here that can assist us? Yes there is. I consider this miraculous! Monsignor, it is not so. It just happens. I knew what she was 23 years ago. Agnetha seemed to be in shock, so Brother Timothy cleaned her up as best as he could. Agnetha, you have been reborn as someone like me, but it is no longer safe for you to stay here. Do you understand? Agnetha nodded mutely, her eyes still wide. She will adjust, Monsignor, she will need to. I will try to help you as I can, Agnetha. Say nothing of this to no one. They will not see it as miraculous ….._


	34. Chapter 33

Amanda did not like this. First, she discovered that the eight of them might be trapped. Secondly, despite Dawson's attempt to further converse with Faustus, he was being ignored. The background hum of conversation had also died out. To Amanda, it seemed that all not in the group she was with were concentrating on her. _Maybe they were concentrating on Dawson!_ She doubted that was the case though. She could sense the immortality of those present, but it felt so subdued, almost like an afterthought. Suddenly her head jerked up…_THAT was no afterthought! _Dawson was trying to get her attention, but she was looking all around the room trying to find the source. She got up from the table and concentrated on ALL the feelings she got from the immortals. She watched as a crackle of bluish lightning wreathed her arm for a moment. What was more peculiar was that all the immortals in the area were either down on their knees or completely down; some were retching while others were screaming. Gwyneth was holding her head and screaming, but Amanda saw this as a chance to flee. She twisted free of Gwyneth's grip and made it to the door. She opened it and was headed out when suddenly all she saw was stars and a massive pain in her head. Try as she might, she staggered back and fell down. She tried to stay conscious, but a black well dragged her down…..

Brother Timothy had also felt the jolt, but he knew what to expect. He had smashed her with his left hand and knocked her out cold for the moment. The facial lacerations he had caused healed quickly, leaving only a bit of blood. Clywd and Dactal were right behind him. While they seated themselves at the other table, Brother Timothy took the seat recently vacated by Amanda. Dawson reached for his cell phone while the guards went for weapons.

"Make sure the door is sealed and the parking lot as well." Brother Timothy seemed to stare off into space as he spoke again. "Do not try to call on your phone, beard-face. Also you will tell your compatriots NOT to draw any weapons. The consequences of either act would be dire indeed. You and the others will place your cell phones on the table." When Dawson hesitated to do so, Brother Timothy made a hand motion. One of the ones that had entered with him quickly drew their bow. "Beard-face, you think my friend will miss at this range? You are welcome to try your luck, but they are quite skilled with the bow." Shortly thereafter, six cell phones clattered on the table.

It was Dawson's turn to be livid. "You will not get away with this, you son of a bitch!"

"It looks like I already have for the most part." Brother Timothy grabbed Dawson's right wrist. He released it after seeing the tattoo there. "I honestly thought I was through with watchers; now I am face to face with some."

"You will never be shut of us now, asshole. Your best and only chance is to let us go!" Amanda stirred on the floor and then rubbed the side of her jaw. "Help her up and seat her at the other table." Amanda was half dragged to the table and tossed rather roughly onto the seat. Brother Timothy grabbed Gwyneth who was trying to edge away. He pulled off the hat to reveal her red hair. Gwyneth's eyes were a deep green. "It seems you are immortal. I told you that somehow I would find you." While he kept a hold of Gwyneth, he spoke to Amanda. "Do not attempt to flee again, or it will go even more harshly with you. You have already caused enough trouble, INTERLOPER!"

"Is this the one who has dared transgress on our issue with Clan Hwywd?"

"Yes Clywd. I have no idea why she is here, but who is to know the vagaries of the Gods?"

Amanda answered Brother Timothy. "I am here because he lied to me. He said he knew how the truce was created regarding the formation of The Rules!"

"You should know by now that mortals can't be trusted; they are capricious and vicious, and though not really a fault of theirs directly, they take a short view of things. Only two people know what I did to force a truce of a sort, but I doubt that Dougal will tell you either. He was too stupid to take a long view of things."

"Dougal is dead, Duncan killed him in New York!"

Brother Timothy unhooded himself as he stared at Amanda. "Clywd, Dactal, we now have two interlopers. A shame; I wanted Dougal for myself." "

Dawson spoke again, "What in hell is that language you are using. It sounds like damn birds singing."

"For what it is worth, it is Eldritch speech; others call it the olden tongue. What is it that you have on that computer that is so precious to you, beard-face?"

"My name is Dawson!"

"Okay, Dawson, what do you have there?" Brother Timothy wrested the laptop computer from Dawson. "Interesting, it is a list of immortals. Look, some are on this list who are also present in this room! These are pretty thorough!" Brother Timothy closed the largest list then opened up the smallest one. "Someone decided to list us as well. This is definitely not welcome…"

Brother Timothy released the laptop; Dawson grabbed it back with a belligerent expression. "You have no idea what you brought down upon yourself, do you! As soon as they do not hear from me—"

"What? Your cohort comes in with a bunch of axes? That is how you seem to do business these days."

"It was your god damned immortals that attacked us first!"

"Let me correct you on that count, Dawson. These immortals were never mine; it was Ap Hwywd that chose to fight in such a way that was beneath the pale. Accept that how you wish; I prefer to stay way out of vision of anyone, but I knew that you or someone like you would have to show up here sooner or later. It logically follows; this many immortals in one place would raise too many questions. You also want to be under the radar, for different reasons. I however digress." Brother Timothy fixed Dawson with a chilling smile. "One way or another, various matters will be resolved, and resolved soon. That includes your little outfit and their tendency at times to be where they are not wanted."

Clywd and Dactal jerked erect; Clywd spoke. "I profess to not know much of the modern language you speak, but you intend to parlay with those people instead of killing them outright?"

"As tempting as that proposition is, Clywd, Pax Immortalus is no longer the state of things. Be assured that I will get what I want and need, for the only reason being that this one dealt with two immortals in a rather typical mortal fashion. It will not take much for them to see our side of things." Brother Timothy laughed at Dawson's consternation as he reached for Dawson's cell and dialed a number.

Dawson had been in many a tight scrape before; he had lost his legs in Viet Nam after all. This had to be not only the strangest confrontation in which he had been involved, but probably the most dangerous. On his screen was the small file that Laskey had sent him. He looked on the right side and individually clicked on the top three entries. The second and the third one had to correspond to this Monks friends, but they had no real information. When he clicked on the entry for the one at the top of the list, he got a picture of a monk. Almost every other field was filled with place holders, implying the information was unknown. There was a notes section which was an active link, so he clicked it. The information contained there sent a chill of fear through him like he had never felt before. He ignored the fact Brother Timothy was using his cell as he read:

**Notes of Edmund Laskey: **_I am unable to gather any real pertinent information on this immortal. Most of what is here I overheard from those who compromised this cell. This one goes around garbed as a monk. He has done so for at least nine centuries; perhaps more. They laugh at the immortals they see, but they speak of this one with cold fear and hatred. He killed two of them sometime in the 12__th__ century; they said he poisoned over 100 people to get at them and as they died, he laughed his contempt at the victims. They spend a lot of time seeking to get rid of him without having to face him in combat. They say no one could stand against him with not only a sword that puts others of its weapon to ruin, but backed by the sheer ferocity of its wielder. Their clan and his are arch enemies due to some event that happened long ago. I was not able to find any causal referents to the time they spoke of; needless to say, it could be as far back as pre-history. Another event: One of them attacked this immortal with numerous others in tow with the intention of taking his head or some such. This immortal butchered those sent against them with hardly any exertion. He and the others had to run as even more assailed them. They also spoke of a time when this immortal went to their clan house to kill. They say he killed near five score of their clan. Additional comments: I do not believe those who compromised this cell. I myself can think of many reasons why I want them dead. It will not be I that achieves that; hopefully with their exposure, others will take their heads. That still leaves the issue of this immortal that dresses as a monk. If the red haired bastards are to be believed, his penchant for slaughter and havoc is unequaled, as is his temper regarding any sort of trespass against him. Fight with this immortal at your own peril! _

_**Addendum:**____That is impossible! He can't be that old! If he is, how many heads has he taken? All the more reason to avoid this immortal! This can't be true! The red haired ones are lying! They are LYING!_

_Terrific! _Dawson thought. _I am face to face with an immortal that possibly is older than not only Methos, but one who may simply not give a shit about things modern. _One look into the monks visage told Dawson far more then he cared to know. _Would he actually have any connection to the modern world?_ Dawson was brought out of his reverie by the monk's voice. He was on his cell phone!

Duncan lost no time settling in once he was in London. He chose an out of the way inn on the northern outskirts partially for as much anonymity as possible, but also to be as close as he could be to where Dawson was. He had only a general idea of what he was going to do next; most of it involved a razor sharp katana. For some reason, he felt that the specifics as to what he was going to do would not be long in coming. He was on his way to the borough when his phone rang. He looked at it with an 'it figures' sort of expression and answered the call.

"Dawson! What sort of game are you playing?"

"Actually, Dawson is busy reading something on his PC. It seems to have put him in a more sobering mood. I personally prefer calling him beard-face though."

"If he is injured—"

"Please spare me your inane threats. I have Dawson here and five of his watchers. In addition, I have an interloper thief that you know well. Oh, I also have that Ap Hwywd you have been hiding. She is mine now. You have some articles that were stolen from me; no more games of chasing them around and dealing with all sorts of odious little mortals, you WILL return them. The safety of your friends depends on it.

"Why in hell did you attack those people—"

"That is none of your concern; as I said, I want back what was stolen from me. I am hoping you had enough common sense to have the items in your possession. There is no point in fighting over the matter; you cannot hope to win."

"So sure of yourself, aren't you?" Duncan saw a warehouse that looked to be abandoned. He pulled his car into the lot, hiding it as much as possible in the shadows. "If you want them, you murderous bastard, come and get them!" Duncan gave him the address of the location, and then cut the connection. _Are you sure you know what you are doing?_ He shook himself free of any internal doubt. This bastard could not go around raising hell and havoc where and when he chose. Someone had to teach them otherwise and Duncan felt that he was the one best suited to that task.

"Clywd and Dactal, there looks like there will be a complication to my efforts here. The ingrate interloper has all but called me to combat." Brother Timothy arose from the table. "Keep the other interloper and the other intruders here under guard. If I do not return, you know what to do. Slainte! I go to answer Badb and Morvran as best I can!" Without waiting for a response, Brother Timothy left the building.

"Amanda, what in hell did he say?"

Amanda looked at Dawson for a second. "He and Duncan will probably cross swords. I left him information as to how to find you and me; I did that before I left."

Dawson swore under his breath. "We had an agreement, damnit!"

"What agreement? You lied to me to get me down here for god knows what! Duncan will not stand a chance against him; the Ap Hwywd's were afraid of him for a very good reason. Had you simply confided with Duncan, this could all have been avoided. I had no idea what those things were or what they meant, but even faced with some of the facts you had at hand, you chose to behave UNDER the pale! Now, if he does not return, then we die. Or maybe we die after he returns, I don't know. But do NOT talk to me about matters of trust!" Amanda tore her gaze from Dawson and turned her back to him.

Brother Timothy had no problem with the location; after all, those surrounding the forge were all locals. It was only a short time later as dusk settled upon the earth, that he was where the interloper awaited him.

Duncan slowly walked through the warehouse, senses alert of any sound out of the ordinary. He heard a car pull, up and then stop. _He is here! Run! Run like Hell! _MacLeod's never run. Any doubts that Duncan had regarding what he intended to do were erased at the memory of what destruction the monk had caused in their wake. He was taking no chances this time; his sword was at guard position ever since he left his car. He _felt _them! This time though, there was no feeling of sickness or such; it felt like just another immortal sensing another. He laughed, "That dirty little trick doesn't work anymore! Dougal tried that; all it did was piss me off! And he lost his head. What sort of sick individuals are you? Cannibalism?" He expected no answer, but quickly stopped and spun when he got a reply, from _behind_ him!

"You DARE compare me to that defiling clan of red-haired bastards? I am here now as you wished."

"Then show yourself, coward!" Duncan stepped back a step when the monk emerged from the shadows. The monk had not yet drawn his sword, but stutters then cascades of quickening fire fled up and down his frame. _He does not even seem to notice that!_

"Where are the items that were stolen from me?" The monk spoke in a level tone of voice, but Duncan was not fooled. _I have seen his anger, and it is beyond any I have ever seen. _The monk was speaking again. "It was the Daoine who were truly uncaring; I learned to be as much like them as possible. This is your last chance to give me back what is mine…"

"Or what? Your stupid little lightshow doesn't scare me!"

"ARVACH!" With no further warning, the monk reached into his cowl and drew his sword. As he did so, he came at Duncan at a dead run. As he blocked the malevolent swing, Duncan knew this would be a fight for his life.

_Think, damnit, Think!_ Duncan had no time for such an act though. The sword the monk carried was over four feet long and darker than even the shadows in which they both battled. Duncan noticed his reflexes and sword skill had improved, but what use would they be against this? The monk was no slower than he was on his feet, but the sword they carried dwarfed his katana in nearly all aspects. He knew that he could not afford a direct parry of that weapon lest his own sword be broken. He had tried using what martial arts he had learned, but the few blows he had landed had no effect. The monk either countered the blows directly or skipped away at any impact. The monk was chanting in the language Duncan now understood; it was some homily speaking of great havoc to be wrought at behest of some god. Duncan knew to duck or back off when the monk did so; that was a signal for a two handed sword sweep. He felt the blade whistle only inches from his face more the once. He had moved in to attack when the monk caught their sword in a crate, but to his surprise, the monk parried no less than four katana blows with his left arm. His katana had a _scorch_ mark on its blade when it connected directly with that _greave_ he was wearing; Duncan had never seen anything like it in his life. The Monk then kicked at the crate, withdrew his sword, and then turned it into an attack._ So he not only has a massive sword, he has a piece of armor on his left arm that serves as a shield. Terrific!_ There was also another problem; Duncan was starting to physically tire; the brutality and ferocity of the monks attack had drained him more than he had realized. It was starting to show as well. Duncan had been cut several times on his chest and arms; his shirt was in ruins. The monk had a few rends in his robe on his left sleeve, but nothing more of consequence. He suddenly got an idea from studying how the monk fought. He could not hope to parry that sword for long; perhaps he could attack between his swings? It would take some unbelievable timing, but what did he have to lose? The monk made another two armed sweep; Duncan made as if to parry the blow, then quick as he could he ducked under the sweep and executed a fencing maneuver he had learned. As sharp as the katana was, the monk should have lost his head at that very moment. But the monk had not lived this long without learning something. The monk ducked his head at the crucial moment. Instead of losing his head, the katana laid open the right side of his face to the bone. Blood erupted from the wound and spattered on the floor. Brother Timothy screamed in pain as he lowered his sword to put his right hand to his face. Duncan withdrew from his strike and aimed a cut at the monks head. The monk recovered and skipped away. He backed away at a near running speed with Duncan following.

"I bet that hurts, doesn't it!"

The monk saw a crate that was low enough to use as a barrier to his pursuer. He jumped on to the crate and rolled off the other side. Duncan could hear the clang of metal as his sword hit the ground. There was no way to quickly get around the crate; to follow the monk would not be a good idea. He paused to regain some breath as he inspected his sword; it was not damaged; all the scorch mark did was mar the beauty of the weapon. He started when he heard the sound of metal being dragged over the concrete of the floor. As suddenly as it started, it ceased. _This is not a good sign,_ he thought. A tendril of quickening fire that arced across to him was his only warning of a renewed attack. The monk's cowl was crusted with blood, but there was no further sign of injury. The monk was silent; their sword was carried at that weird rest position again. Something was different, though. Duncan sensed an even more palpable threat if that could have been called possible. He closed the gap to the monk, sword raised to strike. His blow was deflected to the side as the monk spun around in a full circle. The impact of the kick staggered him. The centrifugal force of the monk's action had allowed the cowl to slip down to his neck. _His eyes were occluded by blue quickening fire! _ Duncan now felt something _different _about his foe; it was as if their demeanor had changed. They now fought in a stony silence; they no longer sang to themselves. The monk proceeded to attack again, but with a different style. He no longer used any full sweeps, only partial ones. Duncan was quick to see the danger of this; with only a partial sweep, the monk could launch more than one attack against him. His fencing maneuver almost cost him a broken blade as the monk trapped his katana between his blade and his armored left arm. Then the monk turned into a dervish of spinning feet and hands and steel. _This was insane!_ _This was an attack style used with a far lighter sword! _No matter how insane it was, though, it was working in the monk's favor. Duncan received new cuts on his arms and a gash on his leg as well as countless new bruises. He landed some blows upon the monk as well, including a cut on the scalp. As quick as he wounded the monk, the wounds disappeared almost instantly. A blow with his katana was met by the armored left hand of the monk. Duncan saw the sword come down towards his right arm. He had no choice but to twist his body and pull away with the sword. He felt it cut into the monk's left hand, but the monk paid the injury no mind. The monk dropped his sword with his right hand after he closed the remaining distance between them. A solid punch from the monks right hand numbed his right shoulder; a second punch turned into a grab as the monk dislocated Duncan's right shoulder. The spasm of agony caused Duncan to lose the grip on his own sword. The monk cast the katana away by the blade, unmindful of the laceration to his left hand. A mule kick to Duncan's torso catapulted him onto a pile of trash, compounding the agony to his right shoulder. The monk stood there in silence, quickening fire crackling around them. As if a fire had suddenly been put out, the glow disappeared from his eyes. Even in his own agony, Duncan once again sensed a change. The monk seemed…normal. He also noticed they were breathing hard. They picked up their sword from the ground and slowly walked over to where Duncan lay. _I don't have a chance; it looks like I die now._ The black sword whistled down…and stopped inches from his neck. "

I have other things to deal with besides you and your meddlesome friends. Be at the forge with the items by midnight tonight, or I assuredly will end the interfering ways…of all parties involved!" At this utterance, the monk sheathed his sword and left.


	35. Chapter 34

Brother Timothy got into the car with no excessive movement. The driver looked at him, "Did you take his head! I thought I saw a quickening! What happened—"

"You will please drive back to the forge. What happened is of my concern only at this time." An attempt of the driver to elicit more information was met with a blood encrusted hand. "Drive!"

_Why did he not kill me?_ Considering the pain Duncan suffered at the moment, death might have been a less painful option. He found a stout support beam in the warehouse. _This is going to hurt._ He steeled himself against the pain, but he barely stifled a scream as his shoulder popped back into place. Fortunately, the pain rapidly dissipated, leaving him tired. What ever ire he had felt previously was burned out by his close brush with death tonight. He picked his way slowly back to his car and checked his watch. He had less then two hours to go. He searched through his mind for any ideas on what to do next; he drew a blank. He stared at the satchel on the passenger seat. He resisted an urge to take out the items yet again. _What good would it do?_ Duncan knew what he was going to do; he just could not figure out any reason to justify his actions. He did not want to see any harm come to Amanda or Dawson, but how had it come to this? Work towards the betterment of humankind, wasn't that the idea. Wasn't that the reason he had taken a number of risks in nearly all aspects of his life? _They who converse in the Olden Tongue despise peace, for to them, it means that their enemies grow stronger._ Duncan listened to the new train of thought as it slowly unfolded, a mixture of what he now knew and what Darius had spoken of many times before. _Why do you persist in sharing their massive sorrows? They live, they grow old, they die, but we are not so blessed. We live, and die inside over the centuries; we seem to think our immortal life is so precious, but there is more often a time I think of it as a curse. No amount of praying will fully hide the truth of that matter. How can they be so inured to the slaughter they cause though? Perhaps it is all they have ever known, Duncan. Who can say who really the oldest immortal is? I would not dispute Methos' claim, but I remain skeptical. Why? No one has ever traced our kind back to where we began. How far back does it go? Yes, I know of the legends of the Daoine Na Sidhe; they may only be spoken of in bardic song or personified in novels, but there seems to be too much lore involving them to be solely a legend. They could easily have existed before the time mankind started recording history. If they did exist, wouldn't some of them be immortal as well or did it start with mankind? I would not envy a real old immortal, drenched in quickening fire from the havoc they probably caused by their selves or their very nature. Imagine when the time comes they must no longer wage their ruin in public eye; furthermore, when they realize that a quickening is only a minor amusement that does not mean anything. Would you want to be like that? You and I, Duncan, we can never be like that. We both were raised with some concept of the rules of mankind. An immortal is an obscenity before that law, yet with such a gift, we are compelled to act in better stance then any mortal. But for one who became immortal before those rules were even informally codified…they would not really be human , though they may look like one._ In Duncan's mind, it seemed like Darius was absorbing the information he had gained; upon doing so, Darius' opinion was purely excoriating in his evaluation. _They assuredly are powerful; they would have to be to live so long. No mortal could suffer carrying that much hatred around. I thought I would never say this, Duncan, but you want no part of their world or existence. It would never fit you even if you really were a part of it, which you aren't… _Duncan snapped back from his reverie as he considered this new angle. _They may look and act human, but they really are not human…_ Duncan started his car. It was time to be shut of the items he had, and the person or people involved with them. _I will never be like you, Ardis, never._

Everybody in the forge looked at the door as two immortals arose to unlock it. First there was one of the local immortals, followed by Brother Timothy. His robe had slash marks on the left arm and the right side of his hood was covered in blood. Without a word, he sat down at the place where he was before. The local immortal then closed the door upon leaving. Several people started to voice questions at once, but a hand from Brother Timothy silenced them. He pulled back his hood. "I know many of you have questions, most will be answered shortly."

Dawson was livid. "You killed him, you Son of a Bitch! We are not going to let this matter ride!"

Brother Timothy shrugged, "You should have all the facts before you launch a verbal tirade at me. It is so unseeming that one as relatively learned as you assails me so."

"Clywd, he has until midnight to return here with the items. Thief, I advise you to shut your mouth as to what we said. It will go somewhat better for you if you do."

Amanda was not talking to anyone at the moment; she appeared to be listening to something no one else could hear. She looked at Brother Timothy. "What in hell is that singing I hear? It is enough to drive me nuts!"

Brother Timothy looked at Clywd and laughed. "Clywd, I thought this would happen." An immortal tossed the monk a bottle of water. He took a long draught of it before he set it down. He became aware of some voices outside that started to rise in volume. "Let them in here!" Brother Timothy barked. The door swung open. Duncan MacLeod entered, somewhat the worse for wear, but alive. "Shut and lock that door. Do not open it until I say so." Soon, all was as it was before in the forge.

"The tomes, the cross and writ, and the crown. You best have them with you." The monk closed his left hand into an armored fist for emphasis. Before Duncan could reply, he was caught in a bear hug by Amanda. Duncan hugged her back and then pulled away from her. He tossed the rucksack on the table in front of Brother Timothy. The monk lost no time in pulling out the contents contained within. He only paid the cross, writ and tomes a superficial glance. The large half circlet he held up to inspect. For a moment, he made as if to place it on his head, but changed his mind. It went into a pocket of his robe. He froze upon seeing the smaller circlet. "This was not taken from me at the Monastery. Where did you get this?"

Duncan replied, "It was in the possession of Dougal; he had it in a pouch he was carrying."

"I never found her crown; I guess I did not worry much about it. All I found was her violated body. For this I thank you." Brother Timothy put the second crown into the same pocket. "You did as I wanted; had these been returned earlier, a lot of havoc would have been avoided. You and yours are free to go." The monk tried to turn away, but Duncan stepped forward and pinned the monks left arm to the table. Everyone in the room gasped; Clywd had nocked an arrow and was aiming at Duncan's head. "You dare to lay a hand on ME!" Brother Timothy arose from his seat as fluid as water and fixed Duncan with an icy stare. He shook off the restraining arm upon him like it did not exist.

"I want some answers that I think only you can provide. I am not leaving here without them!"

Brother Timothy started laughing, softly at first, then louder to the consternation of all present. Clywd had lowered his bow, but still uttered a hiss of contempt. Duncan began to get angry, but as he made to speak, Brother Timothy shook his head and then returned to his seat. "I told you that they can be pretty impudent at times, didn't I? "

Clywd and Dactal laughed at the statement. "This does not change the fact that they are both interlopers. Are we to suffer them to live for this trespass?"

"It is of no matter; what the Daoine will demand will be and they will have naught to say of it." Brother Timothy gave a frosty smile to Duncan. "Ask your questions; but if you do not answer me back in this speech, your watcher friends will not be suffered to live." Duncan looked into the monks' eyes. _There is not much there to see, unless you count his anger._ "What is this talk about The Daoine Na Sidhe? You speak as if they either once existed or did exist."

"Actually, both are true. I and my companions and Clan Hwywd lived when they did. One apparently is still around at least, even if they are no less cold and uncaring as they were then." Brother Timothy was becoming irritated at the slowly rising crescendo of background noise from the others present. "Clywd, lower your hood for a moment, it may get the silence we need." Clywd once again lowered his hood. That silenced everyone in the building. Brother Timothy looked at Duncan and Dawson; they were open mouthed in shock. Dactal did the same without being asked. "Clywd is of the one true race as they called themselves. They were far more powerful and learned then mankind, but they could only learn so much. They disregarded tomes as merely an amusement; humans used them to educate and store their knowledge. The Daoine Na Sidhe were doomed."

"We could have survived longer, Ardis,, but our gods did not favor us. Books are a waste of time to the Tuatha De Dannan, merely amusements."

"It was so easy to pilfer books from you and the others, Clywd." That comment brought a hiss of anger from the Daoine. "Had you not treated Blaenwys so cruelly, I may not have stolen what books of yours I could find."

Duncan smirked as he snorted slightly in amusement. "Why do we have to speak in this language?"

"Because at least your Watcher friends will not understand it. I have no intention of giving them any information I deem dangerous for mortals to possess."

Duncan warned Amanda with a look; he did not want her translating any of what was spoken. "Why was the quickening from Dougal's demise so destructive?"

"Haven't you figured it out yet? He had a horrendous amount of power; all of them either did or do. I am almost interested in hearing how he died. I know how Bronwyn died. I saw that happen. Your friend was lucky to survive that quickening. Apparently, you had more power than she did, so you did not suffer as much."

"How old are you?"

"Regarding myself, I have only an approximate time. Dougal would have been…let's see….I would state that he would be about 9000 years old. Bronwyn was only 6000. They chopped off a lot of heads, as did we all. The concept of having another immortal as your friend did not take hold that quickly. Clywd is at best only an ally of sorts; he, like I, has a grudge against Clan Hwywd. I would suppose Dactal does as well. Dactal has no love for me; I butchered her race when they attacked us. As the number of immortals dwindled in that time, the ones left alive had a lot of power. At some point, unless you take the head of someone with the same amount of power, a quickening will no longer affect you."

"You never said how old you were, though."

"Older then you possibly could comprehend. I had to use human tomes to get some sort of idea"

"What does Gwyneth have to do with all of this? She only just recently became immortal." Brother Timothy did not answer, but his expression was made of stone. He had turned away from Duncan and was staring at Clywd and Dactal. Clywd had his eyebrows raised, but his face did not really change expression. Duncan noticed that Clywd really did not have that much expression.

"How can you tell his emotions? His face does not even change whether its anger or amusement."

"The Daoine Na Sidhe are not human; they lack some aspects of a human personality. They know anger and rage, but their emotions change like the wind. They have a problem regarding anything that is long term. I laughed loudly at some portrayals of them; Tolkien made them way too human; others made them more coldly distant. I still laugh when I read The Lord of The Rings. The fact is, you have to live around them for a while before you can read their tone of voice, or know what will piss them off. For example. Clywd wants to kill this Ap Hwywd here and now; she is a threat regardless of her age."

"You did not say why she is though."

"That is a matter I am not sure I wish to discuss. You are friends with that Watcher there, and this is information I do not want them to have. You see, it is the same information that was used to force a truce between us in 1193."

Duncan noticed Clywd's eyes were as wide as could be as they stared at Brother Timothy. He also noticed that Clywd had their hand on their sword. It was a staring match between the two of them. Clywd looked away in resignation. "This might be amusing either way; whatever the outcome, I will benefit from it. You are aware, MacLeod, that we cannot have children, right?"

Duncan nodded.

"I had only indirect proof a long time ago, but the information I received was correct. When I and my guards attacked their clan house, almost half the Ap Hwywd's I killed were immortals. I finally had direct proof in 1169; Gwynach gave birth right before I killed her. Clan Ap Hwywd can breed. If you answer me in any other language then this, I will kill those six watchers."

Duncan was in shock. _We can't have children! Ap Hwywd's breed. I saw it.__ "We can't have children!" _

"_Ap Hwywd's can; a pretty neat way to build up immortal or mortal numbers. Breed enough, you could take over things, cities, countries, etc. I simply told Dougal if the direct confrontations did not cease, a watcher would learn of their fertility."_

"_That would have provoked such a war!"_

"_You mean it would not now, or do you think a Watcher can be trusted. There is every reason to believe Gwyneth there is fey. The Ap Hwywd's wanted me dead because I still had the information; when they felt that they had enough support, they deliberately provoked me, intending to kill me and suborn the immortals left alive. They underestimated some factors, though, such as you and her interfering. As I said before though, they have provoked me for the last time."_Brother Timothy now turned to face Dawson and the other watchers. "For some reason, I am betting that you have some questions as well. Here is your first answer. It was the Ap Hwywd's, not I, that attacked your fellow watchers. Their penchant is always provocation in the hopes that they can twist the predictable havoc to their own ends. They miscalculated yet again, though. I am much more capable of havoc and ruin."

Dawson had a rather guarded expression on his countenance. "Prior to your alleged truce, how much of the earlier violence we discovered was attributable to you?"

"Probably a lot more then you have discovered; that time was assuredly the Dark Ages in most every respect."

"What in hell were you talking about earlier?"

"That is information which you will never possess; even if there is one conscientious mortal, there are far more who are not. If I have learned anything, it is to be the most restrictive regarding your kind. As far as the immortals go regarding your watching activities, watch who you wish. I, however, will not suffer any of you watching me. That is non-negotiable. If you decide to do so anyways, well, many sorts of nasty things can occur. I am aware that you and this other one do not fully trust each other."

"Where are the other people on this list, then?"

"I know where they are, but that is a matter that will be settled only by those directly involved. It will be settled, but you will not be interfering."

"This is something that would change a lot of perspective if it were viewed though!"

"It originates from a time long before man even had hegemony over the earth. It has no bearing on the present day, unless the Ap Hwywd's were to win. I assure you, that outcome is one that you will NOT want to happen."

"I suppose that there is going to be a battle over this matter, considering your demeanor and the havoc you and they have already caused. Where will this battle be?"

"That is also not any concern of yours; you will assuredly know when it happens. Your only concern is to make sure that your watchers do not hound me…"

Dawson had a stubborn cast to his countenance. "You are pretty free with your threats, I see."

"I refer to them as promises. Tamper with things at your own peril." Brother Timothy arose from his seat. When Gwyneth tried to move away from him, he grabbed her and hauled her to her feet. "I am tired and I am going to get some sleep. You, my dear, are coming with me." Duncan got up from his seat. "You can't just—"

"Yes I can, and I will. Their accursed clan name will no longer be a poison upon my ears!" Duncan made to intervene, but Gwyneth spoke. "Duncan, it is all right. Thanks for letting me stay where you lived; there is nothing you can do to stop this." She looked at Brother Timothy and took her arm from his grasp. "I will not fight you or try to run anymore. I will go with you willingly if that is what you wish." The two of them left the forge, leaving Duncan and Amanda in shock.

"Duncan. Isn't there anything we can do?"

"Amanda, I was not even able to stand against him in combat, I can't do anything more. Nor can you." They left the forge shortly after Brother Timothy and headed back to London.

Dawson also left with his five guards. After calling the other groups scattered in the general area, the groups rapidly joined back together on their way back to London. Despite his tiredness, Dawson did not waste any time. Not thirty minutes after he arrived back in London, he had several Watcher heads in video conferencing. "The matter of the large concentration of immortals is settled. Rather than set up cells in the old places north and south of the city though, I think a larger cell should be emplaced in the city proper; hopefully, the large group will begin to disperse since there is nothing to stop them from doing so. As they do, they can be assigned to other watchers." The others in the conference nodded agreement. Dawson's expression changed to a mix of hardened but fearful. "We have another matter to address. Does everyone have the databases we recovered? Good. Open up the smallest one. Tonight, I was confronted by a sort of Immortal no one here would want to meet. He is the topmost entry on the right hand side. Read the notes attached." A lively discussion started up only a moment after that was done.

Brother Timothy walked at a steady pace through the darkened streets; the rather shabby looking flats were nearly alike. Gwyneth walked at his side, on occasion being pushed by the monk to hurry up. Brother Timothy had no problem finding the one in which he was staying. He opened the door and shoved Gwyneth inside and then closed it. He glowered at her in silence for a long moment before turning on a light. He then proceeded to glower at her some more.

"How old are you?"

When she didn't answer right away, he cuffed her sharply with his right hand, staggering her. "I said, how old are you?" To exemplify his question, he stalked over to her and made as if to pull her erect by her hair.

"I am 35 years old. I was told I was born in Wales, but I was adopted at a very young age."

"Who was your mother? Was it Bronwyn or Clydweth?"

"I do not KNOW who those people are! I do not know why you gaze upon me with such contempt and anger!"

"You LIE!" This time, Brother Timothy smashed her in the face with his left hand. He heard bone crack as she sailed across the room and smashed into the wall. He seized her by her hair. "You are LYING to me! You lied to me with the blue eye lenses you wore to deceive me; had I known, you would have not lived through that night!"

Even though Gwyneth was in pain, she repeated her protestation. "I truly do not know who those people are; I do not even know who you are. Who are you? Who am I? The dreams I have had do not leave me in peace, they horrify me when I think, what will I dream of next?" She laid a hand on him, but Brother Timothy brushed it off. He cast her to the floor and made ready to draw his sword. She gazed up at him with no fear or anger upon her face. "Strike then; I will then be rid of the dreams forever!"

Brother Timothy hesitated. _Could she be telling the truth? She is an Ap Hwywd! They defile and corrupt! Kill her!_ Brother Timothy had the seeds of a different idea in his head though. If she truly did not know why he hated her so, perhaps if she knew why, it would make her death all the more fulfilling. _Maybe she will plead for her live as you rive it from her! _Brother Timothy released his grip on his sword. "If you truly do not know, then it is fair that you should…before you die!" Brother Timothy grasped Gwyneth's head on her right side as he concentrated. "Here…know from what defiling corruptors you sprang!" Quickening fire arced along his left arm and impacted her head not once, but several times. The smell of burnt hair and flesh sang a melody to Gwyneth's screams. He released her as she crumpled to the floor. Brother Timothy laughed; it was a sound like shattering icicles in a frigid storm….

Gwyneth screamed…then she SCREAMED! Make it stop! There was no way she could stop it though. Unwanted memories poured themselves through her psyche. She was in a clan house then she was working at the university. She was at a place called Tara Hill and she was running like hell on a horse away from a burning clan house. She had barely escaped…someone. That someone had killed all he could find in their home. They rived through children, men and woman. Blue lightning erupted from many of the deaths. She was in the clan house, feasting on a freshly killed child. She faced an elf with a look of cruelty upon its visage; then there were many more. She ran with a furry beast that capered around her and she ran from a monk with hatred etched into his visage. She was a little baby in Poland then she was a grown woman in Wales. Then she saw one who was also red haired, but shot through with grey. They were eating another child as they smiled at her and welcomed her. She was admiring a baby she had just birthed then she was thinking of how to breed more. She swept down the vastness of Tara Hill and stopped at a solitary stone standing strong by itself. There were two chairs near the stone. They were not really ornate, but they were also not plain either. A man and woman occupied the chairs. She could not see the man because his face was blurred, but she could see the woman. Though her gaze was piercing, she could see that it was not bereft of kindness or mercy. The woman was saying something, but Gwyneth could not hear her as the scene suddenly changed. The woman had been decapitated and her body in some places was a red ruin. Dead littered the area, both elven and human. She remembered this in her dreams she had before, but who was the male with the crown. She tried to pierce the blurriness, but had no luck in doing so. She was rapidly approaching a clan house which seemed to erupt with red haired people carrying swords and such. The scenes began to merge into each other until all became a blur. Try as she might, there was no way to extricate herself form a spiral of noise and death and blood. She followed it down into a welcoming pit of blackness.

She once again became aware of her surroundings by degrees. The sole light shining in the flat gave her the only focus she had. As she became more aware, so now was she aware of what she now knew. She was born in Poland and taken away to Wales. She WAS of that clan. She was of Clan Ap Hwywd. She was revolted by what they had done, though. She cried in great, racking sobs as she absorbed more and more of the information. She then realized with a start who the male with the blurred face was. She could now fix them clearly in her mind. The hair was longer and they wore barbarian decorations. Cut the hair and put a robe over them; they were one and the same. She raised her tear streaked visage to look at Brother Timothy. "I know who you are, now. You are the one I sought with my studies." She saw him look at her with no lust, no desire, only smoldering anger. Then, before she could stop herself she spoke again. "If what is given freely is meant for compensation for what was lost, then the giver shall not be held to death for any transgression of theirs." Brother Timothy had his hood down, so his rage was baldly apparent. He picked Gwyneth off the floor by her hair. "You DARE defile her name by speaking what she once said! You assuredly are unrepentant for what your clan did to me! Even Blaenwys would have excoriated such as you!"

"I am NOT Blaenwys; I can never be that which you have lost! But I am also not Ap Hwywd either; I could never be what they are! They sicken and revolt me!" I am only….myself." Brother Timothy released her and stepped back. "And even if you knew what I had lost, how would you even BEGIN to offer compensation for that? Answer me if you can! Let us see what defiling lie erupts from you!" "She was your love and meant the world to you. I am one of the Clan against whom you swore vengeance."

She knew then what she needed to do. As much as part of her thought it shameful and exploitative, there was another part who called it meet and fair. She went into the bathroom and washed the blood from her face. She found a comb to set her hair straight and then returned to where Brother Timothy was. As quickly as she could, she disrobed; moments later, she was nude. Her eyes showed sorrow and remorse and an inner fire as she approached Brother Timothy. "How dare you—" Brother Timothy tried to back away, but he could not do so before Gwyneth kissed him. Though in his mind his monastic vows shrieked at him, he soon could no longer hear them. She helped him with his robe and the sword he carried on his back and the greave he had on his arm. Soon, the room was naught but swirls of fiery red mixed in with brown and an eerie sort of silence. The one lamp was not turned off for several hours; by then it was hardly needed.


	36. Chapter 35

…_once again he was in the place so verdant; it was as the other dream, but something was different. A reddish cast seemed overlaid on to whatever he saw. Once again he saw a group of elves clustered around the stone as before, but that had changed as well. In the background he could hear a discordant cacophony that perhaps was supposed to be music, but whatever it was grated upon his nerves. Now he was amongst the elves, but they acted as if he was not there….all but one. She was ethereally beautiful, with natural hair and eye color no human could hope to possess. Her expression was accusatory at the same time it was sad. What are you doing here? You have no right to be in this place. He looked at her but nothing he could think of saying would come to mind. As I told the other one, you are interlopers; you interfered where your interference was not welcome. She suddenly lost all manner of neutrality in her composure. As she glowed brighter, her face took on a sepulchral look. She pointed at him and cursed at him most foully in Eldritch speech. Now the others had noticed him as well; they were no less harsh in their excoriations. He finally managed to flee from them so as he did not drown in their rebuke, but there still remained the reddish pall over the area and the discordant undertone; the discordance had increased in volume…._

_ ….she remembered where she was, except the scenery was changed. The charnel-filled clan house stood undisturbed and silent. It seemed to her that the clan house was a living entity that was watching her. There was a discordant musical sound in the back of her mind; it was as if she could barely hear it. Suddenly she was facing an elf most ethereally beautiful. The elf's expression was hard to comprehend, but her words were not. What are you doing here? You had no right to interfere. This was not your time and you have no right to what you know of us. The other one was told as much. She had faced this one before in her fever dreams, so she had no problem responding to the accusation. She tried to kill me; I killed her instead, both physically and in my mind. She paid the price for attacking me. I have the right to see you and be here because I survived. The elf's expression became sepulchral as she snarled back in riposte. You are an Interloper! Your interference was not WELCOME. Do you hear the voices of those of us that you have offended by your transgression? They will never rest until this matter is decided. You had no right to interfere….as she spoke, the background noise began to increase…she drew her sword, but the elf had disappeared….she was once again alone on the vale where the clan house rested…but the cacophony was still there….she suddenly switched perspectives and was viewing a verdant area of someplace…she knew this was Temair….but there was a reddish color overlaying everything she saw…only by moving towards the taint would the voices she was hearing lessen…..I DO belong here, she shouted at no one in particular…then the scene was swept away…._

Duncan was wide awake in what seemed like a moment's notice. For a fraction of a second, his senses felt hyper-alert; as fast as the feeling had overtaken him, it was gone, leaving him somewhat tired and assuredly not well rested. He checked his clock. It was 4:30 in the morning, but he did not feel like trying to get anymore sleep. He shook his head and rubbed his temples for a moment, as if trying to shake something loose, but then gave up. He was only slightly surprised to see Amanda out in the kitchen as well.

"You have a hard time sleeping as well?" Duncan got a bottle of water from their supply and drank it.

"Yeah, it was rather weird, but then again, I was there before in my dreams, at least part of it. I was at their clan house, but it was undisturbed and still."

"I was at Temair, and I had some elves cursing at me after they called me an interloper. Some white haired female with purple eyes." Amanda looked taken aback for a moment. "She was the one who took offense at my being there before. She was in my dream as well."

Duncan and Amanda quickly compared notes. "It seems we both kind of had the same dream. Amanda. I wonder what the significance of the red color is at Tara Hill. I have an idea, but there may be only one person who would know." Duncan rubbed his eyes for a second. "You hear those discordant voices?"

"Yes I do. She said they will not rest until the matter is settled." She ran over to hug Duncan. "I am so sorry that this happened. I never thought that this would occur from trying to find some simple answers." Duncan smirked in a good-natured fashion. "I guess at times the simplest of questions can bring some complicated answers. I suppose we will have to figure out what to do after this is over, if it ever is." Duncan bowed his head for a second to think. "I don't think it is over. Remember he said there was a price to pay for our interference? No, this is not over." Duncan tried to lie down and sleep some more, but every attempt he made to get some rest was jarred away by the discordant voices and some angry people who no longer existed in the present day. They made it seem that they still did, though.

He awoke well after the sun had risen. _I usually do not sleep this late._ Brother Timothy tried to rise from the bed, but found his attempt barred by some things physical, some things not. Spread out across his chest and partially on his face was a sea of flame red hair. Said hair was connected to a woman. Some odd odors also assailed him, but not in an unpleasant way. Then like a flood, it all washed into his mind as to what happened. _You have violated your monastic oath._ _What oath? You so joyously like to say I am not a monk anyways._ He gave up trying to reason with his inner voice; reaching any sort of compromise would be hypocritical anyways, at least regarding this matter. _You made love to her. You know what she is, but why does she still live?_ His train of thought abated temporarily due to Gwyneth waking and looking at him. Her eyes looked mostly sleepy, but the inner fire still burned within them. _Few can boast of having that shade of green for their eyes._ It was like looking at jade somehow imprinted upon ocular organs. He stared back at her without a word to say. _I no longer have the desire to kill her. She is not one of them, though she shares their name. Death to ALL Ap Hwywds! Did you not yourself pass that judgment upon them? She is not one of them and will not ever become one of them. What will you do now? She is defenseless and she will be hunted down by watcher and immortal alike for different reasons! _ He gently moved her aside as he arose from the bed and stretched. He actually felt in relative fine spirits this morning. Once more, he stared at her, but could find nothing to say. He took a shower to remove the night's exertions from his skin.He said nothing even when she joined him in the shower. Her expression was neutral when he could see into her eyes. She refused to or was too scared to make eye contact with him for some reason. After he had dried off, he dressed himself as quickly as he could. He was gazing intently at the debris and damage to his robe, so he initially did not see Gwyneth enter. He was only pulled away from the robe by her touch on his arm. She stepped back when he quickly turned his gaze to her. "I don't know what to think and I don't know what to do." She stared at the floor as she spoke, sounding lost and confused at the same time. Brother Timothy walked over to her and laid his right hand upon her shoulder. She momentarily flinched at his touch. "Why is it that you will not look at me when you talk to me?" She brought her gaze up to meet his. "You are drenched in slaughter and havoc; every time I look at you, I see more of the same to come. Am I right in thinking this is not the end? Am I right in knowing that you intend to slaughter them all?"

"They were the ones who defiled my home where I was accepted and happy. Part of the blame is also my own, for treating with them when I should not have done so. They were so many and I was but one."

Gwyneth was still looking at him with those green, green eyes. "Yet when they did not answer to your summons, you rived through their clan house, killing all in your way! For weeks I have essentially dreamed of nothing but the destruction you rained down upon them. How long have you and they waged this war?"

"It was over 5500 years ago that my world was sundered by what they did; what I in part let happen. This matter will not be settled until I settle with them."

"If you happen to survive that meeting, what then will you do?"

Brother Timothy shook his head ever so slightly as he turned away from her. "I have not thought that far into the future. The one who will come for me is at least as powerful as I am; they also felt that they were cheated of the crown that was given to me. The Lia Fail spoke; it cannot be denied, no matter the claim one makes to the throne. I never really asked for it to be thrust upon me; I was happy with being the clan chief of Clan Anon." He once again looked at her. "What will you do now? Eventually, what I said to Duncan and Amanda will get around somehow. Immortals will not tolerate one of their kind being fey."

"How do you know I am fertile?"

"Ap Hwywd's with red hair and green eyes are always fey as well as immortal. Gwynach was red haired and green eyed; she had just given birth as I attacked her. I saw it with my own eyes." Gwyneth dressed and then brushed her hair. She sighed and looked Brother Timothy in the eyes yet again. "I have given unto you some of what you lost; I guess it remains to be seen if I made the right choice. Will the dreams cease once they are all dead, or will they be my personal hell to bear alone?"

"I don't really know anymore; it has been so long since I was tasked with King's Justice. Upon meeting whoever is left of Clan Hwywd, I have no exact idea what will happen. I may not return after joining battle with them; I have accepted that as a possible outcome. I suppose I will find out soon enough. As for you, there is a place where you will be safe for the time being; that is, if you agree to it." Brother Timothy proceeded to speak of a rather interesting place of which he knew; it was not that far from the Monastery of Saint Timothy.


	37. Chapter 36

**Bad vibes from The Place of Kings?**

Siobhan McIntyre

(Reuters)

Even though Sean Llewellyn may be a computer repairman by day, at night he dons a white robe for his other calling.

Llewellyn is one of many practicing druids in the area. Rather then worship one single god, he and others of his kind practice a religion whose roots are in the era long before Christianity came to be. When conversing with him two days ago, Mr. Llewellyn seemed agitated and unhappy.

"Something is wrong with Tara Hill," Llewellyn states with conviction. "It is as if some sort of corruption has taken hold there. Though he said he only received a general ill feeling upon approaching The Mound of the Hostages, other people who practice the same religion have gone as far as being physically sick.

"We are investigating this matter as one of high concern," a spokesperson for the Meath County Constabulary. "We consider Tara Hill to be a national treasure."

Tara Hill, or Temair as some would call it, is considered the place of Irish kings. Located in Meath County, Ireland, it is held in high esteem by not only the druids, but the influx of tourists to the area do much to provide needed services. In addition to the Mound of the Hostages, the site also contains the Lia Fail, or The Stone of Destiny. Legends say that if a true king of Ireland touches the stone, it will thrice proclaim their right by a mighty booming sound. Various parts of the site have been dated to as far back as 2500 BCE; as more study is done on Tara Hill, perhaps even older traces will be found.

That is all good and well, but for Sean Llewellyn, there still is the matter of what he describes as a taint upon the area. He and others are conducting rituals to find out what has happened to bring such a low feeling to those who visit the place of the High Kings.

Despite rumors of people being seen entering the area disappearing recently, no such rumor can be substantiated at this time. The same applies to accounts of seeing a reddish pall in the area of The Mound of Hostages. It is a fact of note that the Lia Fail was moved to a different location in the same area, supposedly to mark the graves of victims of one of Ireland's failed uprisings for independence.

"I can't return there until the taint goes away. Other druids feel the same way." Sean Llewellyn firmly stated. "I wonder what has happened to cause this sense of wrongness." He stared longingly at the verdant site from a border fence, so close yet now so far away.

Brother Timothy wandered into the forge around noon. He smelled coffee brewing somewhere, but his stomach felt a little upset. He bought a container of water from the vending machine and then sat down to drink it. The forge seemed to be a busy place today. What was odder was the massive increase of all sorts of clutter. A number of the immortals were not even in anachronist's garb, but wore regular street clothes. There seemed to be a lot more vehicle traffic outside as well. "What is going on here?" Brother Timothy asked one of the plainly clad immortals. "We were told that we could move around now without fear of being murdered as soon as we leave this place; I am going to live with some of my cousins in Ireland; I may even go live in the USA if I can. This was fun while it lasted, but there is too much more of the world to see." A horn honked outside; the immortal to which he had been speaking tipped his hat, picked up some gear, and left. _I suppose that there is a lot to see out in the world,_ he thought. His reverie was broken by Nathan and Gerard bidding him greeting. "I am wondering how long it will be before there is no one left here to play," Nathan said. "A good amount of players is in process of leaving as we now speak." "Perhaps it is all for the better. There is a lot more of the world to see after all. What will you two be doing?" Nathan scratched his beard. "I will be staying here for the meanwhile along with Gerard and Faustus. Lydia has already left. Marion has been doing her best to bring out your friend in conversation. She is picking up his speech pretty well." Brother Timothy shook his head a little as he smiled. "She did not heed my warning; sooner or later she will understand it." "What are you going to do, Brother Timothy?" "That is actually a good question: What are you going to do Ardis? I am hoping that you exterminated that Ap Hwywd spawn as well?" Brother Timothy saw Clywd and Dactal sitting in a corner of the forge. Marion was next to Clywd. "That matter has already been addressed, friend elf." "I saw no quickening fire where you where, though; it almost makes me think you have become weak and unable or unwilling to fulfill the geas laid upon you." "She is not part of their perfidy; this much I now know. Her life or death will have no bearing on what will soon be." "Then I surmise that you did not eradicate her from her earthly existence? I fail to see what the Daoine ever saw in you; you assuredly are an abject, puerile representation of your species." Clywd's eyes were wide and staring in almost an accusatory way as he spoke. "That is fair, I suppose. This then is fair as well: What on earth did humans ever see in The Daoine Na Sidhe? If humans were so weak and puerile, why do we survive to this day while your kind is consigned to bardic tales, fictional stories and people doing their best to imitate you? The Tuatha De Dannan were weak and puerile; humans survived, The Daoine did not. The matter of Gwyneth Ap Hwywd has been addressed. If you find my handling of the matter is not to your liking, well…tough! I will tell you what I intend to do though. Now that I have the items back that were stolen, I intend to put most of them into safekeeping. What is left will go with me when once more I suffer your kind again…..at Temair. Tell me, why did the Daoine not want Sardicus to touch the Lia Fail?" "You dare profane the Stone with his name!" "No, his name is already a profanity. Why was he not allowed to touch the stone? Did The Sidhe already know of his crime? If not that, could it be something else? Was Sardicus fully human as I or was he something else; something that the Sidhe considered beneath contempt?" "Only those of PURE blood were allowed to touch the stone!" "Sardicus looked human to me; was he a crossbreed?" Clywd's silence and refusal to look Brother Timothy in the eyes were proof enough for Brother Timothy. _That could explain a lot of things._ "Well, it seems that I have prised loose yet another dirty Daoine secret. I will have to admit that humans are not so tolerant about cultures interbreeding, but if that was the only reason you blocked Sardicus from the stone, then you are even worse then humanity in your prejudice. When the time does arrive, I will only hope you will be there. Your general willingness to see this through seems to be tainted by your general disdain of me; I hope the two do not conflict." Brother Timothy turned back to Nathan to continue his interrupted conversation, but upon seeing Marion, he delayed that action. Marion was looking at him wide eyed. "Clywd, how conversant is she in Eldritch speech?" "As is our misfortune of our kind related to hers, she speaks it very well" Brother Timothy looked at Marion. "I guess that you are not so used to our commentary, are you?" It took Marion a few moments to respond. "It sounds as if you hate each other versus being friends…allies? Yes, I find it rather disconcerting." "Welcome to the ways of the Sidhe and those who knew them." Brother Timothy laughed at a show of ire from Marion. He turned to Nathan. "At this time, I have the rest of a day to kill; I will be leaving later in the afternoon to finish up a few more tasks. Then I will return here for my two compatriots. Oh, there is one more thing you could do for me. There will be a certain immortal we have already met; he will be calling here looking for me." Brother Timothy scribbled down a number. "When he calls, have him call me at this number in case I am not around." He glanced once more at Clywd. "Worry not, you of the one true race; there will be a reckoning." Brother Timothy then left the forge as he pulled out another sheet of paper. _Time to get some last chores done,_ he thought. His expression grew hard for a moment. _Then to take care of the last of them…for good! _ He was laughing by the time the door to the forge closed behind him.

**The Monastery of Saint Timothy**

Brother Andrew was up at an early hour today. As quickly as could be managed, he got through the daily sermon and prayer. It was an hour before noon as he decided he was ready for the tasks ahead. _Even if the artifacts are still where they are, I will not stop pursuit of this matter.._ He had no problem getting an appointment with the Monsignor. He had his story prepared; he would appear to have a weakening of his faith. The Monsignor would be more then willing to counsel him on this apparent matter. Until that appointment was to be, though, Brother Andrew had other things to do. He rifled Brother Timothy's sleep area, but found nothing that was damning regarding not only Brother Timothy's belief and faith in god, but when he considered the matter, he found nothing. That did not matter too much after he went to the Monsignor. He accepted the counseling of The Monsignor as if it meant the world to him, but he had the information he had sought: _The artifacts of the Monastery were NOT there! Where could they be then if they were not in the case?_ He knew the answer, though. _I DID see Brother Timothy with at least the sword!_ Despite the warnings and chiding from the superior, Brother Andrew settled on a different approach to the matter, similar to the incident that got he sent away from the Defensor ranks before. At first he was confrontational with the Monsignor; then he switched tack. He had a rather animated conversation with the Monsignor concerning a certain monk. He still had his war cudgel. That rested in his sleeping area, ready for use. _Use for what?_ He either did not know, or he was fooling himself into thinking he did not know. He put that matter from his mind for the moment; when Brother Timothy showed back at this edifice, and then he would ruminate upon the matter. At this moment, he was reviewing the hits he got on Brother Timothy's visage earlier. He was all prepared for confronting Brother Timothy; he had both paintings as well as the text from the Superior. He left an instant message on the secure site for the Superior to contact him later tonight; he felt by then he would have most of this matter cleared up. It felt so good to be once more working for the grace and faith of God! He was so busy thinking about how this would get him back into the favor of Rome, he never considered any other possible outcomes…

**London, England**

It was more of a constant, chronic annoyance then any real threat or illness, but it was…annoying. Duncan and Amanda spent most of the day looking at the sights of London and were for the most part enjoying it, but unless they had something of immediate concern, there would be a disquieting silence that was not really silent. It was as if many voices were talking at a volume lower then a low whisper. It permeated their consciousness, but was not loud enough to hear what was being said. The voices did not even stop when he tried to sleep; any attempt to gain the higher areas of slumber would be rudely cut off with the whispers. The voices sounded like they were angry and excoriating. The same thing was happening to Amanda as well. She said the voices sounded like elves or someone speaking Olden Tongue. The only way Duncan could get some rest was by taking some sleeping pills. He was able to sleep then, but all night long it seemed, his dreams were of verdancy and rivers of blood, people cursing at him while others laughed at him, all with a sort of unspeakable taint wherever he looked. When he awoke, he did not feel that refreshed; he felt more like he had waged a war in his dreams. Amanda was no better off, or maybe worse off. She determined that the voices were of the Daoine Na Sidhe, and they were not happy with her or Duncan. _What the Daoine demand will be._ Even if Duncan still had a temper, he was also pragmatic in many ways. "You want to bet that Ardis knows what is going on? I wonder if he is laughing now as we speak." Duncan found the number for the forge and dialed it. He was surprised that the person on the other end gave him another number to call. He sat and stared at the number for the longest time. _To think I wanted only to be finally shut of him and his ruinous ways. _The look from Amanda left him no other real option. _We need to end this, Duncan._ He dialed the number and waited while it rang…

**The Convent of Mary Most Blessed**

It was near dusk when a cab pulled up in front of the building. Built several centuries ago, the convent was of solid, unrelenting brick, as if by its architecture alone it could bear true testament to its faith. At one time this convent did its best to preach the word of God to all who would listen, but then came the splitting of the church. As with most catholic edifices in this area, they slowly but surely faded from prominence. This Convent was not even listed in the phone directories. Two figures emerged from the cab. One was dressed in monastic garb while the other one was in basic street clothes. They approached the entrance, stopping to admire the design on the heavy doors. Brother Timothy used the knocker to announce their presence. "Whatever happens, do your best to keep your composure." When no one seemed to answer his first summons, Brother Timothy repeated the gesture. An intercom became active after the second time. A pleasant voice spoke. "Greetings. How may The Convent of Mary assist you?" Brother Timothy replied without thinking:

"In nomen patronus illae monasterium, ego addo vobis unus penitentarius pro Deus. Mos vos patefacio vestri porta?"

The speaker on the other end was silent for a few moments. When she spoke again, it was with a hint of confusion in her voice. "Wait one moment please." In the background, Brother Timothy could hear several voices that also seemed confused. The voices suddenly cut off. Thirty minutes passed before the door into the Convent slowly opened. Two nuns were there. One was of advanced age; she was bowed over and hobbled with a cane. The other with her seemed rather young. While the older nun was in her habit, the younger one was not. Gwyneth's eyes went wide for a second, but she kept her silence. Brother Timothy was not fazed by the presence of a third immortal. The young nun smiled at Brother Timothy. "We are so sorry for the delay, but it has been a long time since someone requested sanctuary in Latin. Where are you from, Brother?"

"The Monastery of Saint Timothy. I have one here who seeks your protection, though she may also be of benefit to those here."

The older nun looked at Brother Timothy. There was nothing enfeebled regarding her gaze. "I did not think Latin was taught or used anymore in our places of worship. Where did you learn to speak it so fluently?"

"I felt that it would be of some use, revered Sister."

The old nun smiled. "You yourself are penitent in the name of God, and with proper deference to those senior to you in age. We will gladly take your word as to her state of being and welcome her into our cloister."

The younger nun took Gwyneth by the hand to lead her inside, but as Brother Timothy moved forward, his path was blocked by the older nun. "As there are no women allowed in your monastery, so are there no men allowed into our convent." The three women retreated behind the door and closed it, leaving Brother Timothy alone. _It is done. None shall assail her here in this edifice._ As if addressing an invisible someone, Brother Timothy nodded at the door, turned on his heel, and then got back into the cab. He gave the driver directions to his destination. For the first time in what seemed ages, the smile Brother Timothy had on his visage was not one of malice. He was going back to his home, though only for a short amount of time.

**The Monastery of Saint Timothy**

Brother Timothy paid the cabdriver as he gazed upon the place that had been his home for so long. Fortunately he was not too late, so he had no trouble gaining entrance. He immediately noticed that no one stood watch at either the postern gate or the main gate, but he paid it no mind for the moment. He stifled a yawn while he made to go to his sleeping quarters, but that was not to be. The Monsignor was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs to where he slept. The monk who had let him in probably alerted the Monsignor the moment he was back. Barely constrained anger was written all over the Monsignor's features. His voice was that of one barely keeping the anger in check.

"It is good to see you back, Brother Timothy."

"Thank you, Monsignor. I am looking forward to getting some sleep—

""You will have to postpone that for a while. You will come up to my office immediately!" The Monsignor's demeanor made it obvious that a 'no' would not be accepted; with a sigh, Brother Timothy ascended slowly up the stairs with the Monsignor right behind him. More than a few monks were watching them.

The Monsignor possessed enough of a professional demeanor so that the reason for his anger did not erupt before he closed and locked the office door. "I see that you have been liberal with your expenditures, though not profligate. That is not the reason we are here now. I want to know what in HELL did you do while away from here!" The Monsignor smacked several papers down upon his desk. "What in HELL have you done! Five dead in Wales and a report of someone in monk's robes there! THIRTY people, possibly more, died in Paris! What or who in HELL do you think you are! I want an Explanation, damn it! And this does not even cover an attack upon five agents of the church! Once more, someone in monk's garb!" Brother Timothy waited for The Monsignor to be done with his tirade.

Before he said anything, he opened up the satchel he was carrying. "The writ of excommunication. It is a little more worn then it was due to some rough handling. Here also is the cross." He laid both upon the desk before emitting a deep sigh. "Monsignor, I will not deny the charges that you have laid down upon me. I chased the thief to Wales, but he left before I could catch him. I finally caught up to him in Paris, but others interfered. As far as the thirty go, they attacked me; they got what they deserved. The Agents of the Church were after that cross you now see upon your desk. I had no intention of letting them have it."

Monsignor Leopold's anger had subsided a bit upon seeing the cross on his desk, but he still was livid. "Your robe has several rents in it and even I can smell the reek of blood upon you! Did you have to kill all those people? Do you realize that even Rome may not be able to cover this up? A homicidal maniac in a monk's robe! That will assuredly gain us more parishioners!" Brother Leopold sat down at his desk and put his head in his hands.

Brother Timothy spoke into the silence. "Why aren't the guards at the front and postern gates?"

"They are not there because I relieved them of duty! There was a dismembered body of a local child spread across two gravestones in our cemetery. The police immediately co-opted the matter, making the sentries here irrelevant. We now have a night watchman patrolling our grounds."

_She was here, then! Interesting._ "I suppose that was the best route to take; there will be no more desecrations like that though. She is gone."

"Don't tell me you KNOW who did that!"

Brother Timothy sighed yet again. "The fact is, I do know who did that. She did the same thing back in 1607. That time she and her cohort were able to break into the monastery. She was driven out and most of her cohort was killed. She was after me then, and probably was again this time. She will not be returning. As to what she is, I would find it hard to describe that to you. I came back here to be sure you had that cross and writ. I need to put back a few other things that were stolen from me. Then I will need to leave…one last time I hope."

The Monsignor was tight lipped and still angry. "You know I could revoke the travel permission you have and turn you over to the authorities."

"Perhaps you could, but I do not think that you will. Regardless of what permissions I have, I still will be leaving again very soon. There is one more matter that I need to address, and it cannot be addressed at this edifice. I admit that I have caused some problems—" The Monsignor snorted as he shook his head. "—but I am trying to figure out how to explain something to you; trust me, it is not easy."

The Monsignor's anger was replaced by a look of disgust. "Try me. This had better be good, though."

"How do I explain something that happened over 5500 years ago, Monsignor? Christianity did not even exist then."

The Monsignor paled, "5500 YEARS!"

"Yes, Monsignor, 5500 years. Badb and Morvran were worshipped then; the concept of peace towards your fellow man was not in existence. For over 800 years, a sort of a truce was cast between me and my enemies. That has been irretrievably sundered with the theft of the items taken from me and the havoc that has reigned since that time. I know that at this time you are not happy with me or the events that have occurred, but this needs to be finished, Monsignor, once and for all. Regarding the adverse publicity that I have generated, the ones seeking that cross have a pretty good aptitude for making things go away."

Monsignor Leopold had a slight pallor regarding his complexion, but it was his turn to sigh. "Okay, I will not interfere in the matter you raised. I guess I have no choice but to trust you in this matter. We need to have a real long discussion when you return."

"Well, Monsignor, I need to get some sleep. I assure you that this will work out in the end. All that you need is some faith." Brother Timothy laughed at the Monsignor's expression as he left the office to go to his sleeping quarters. As soon as the door closed, the Monsignor's expression became one of resolve. He neglected to mention that he and Brother Andrew had already completed a discussion of their own. The discussion they had would not have made Brother Timothy very happy, but in the Monsignor's mind, it was all he could do, especially when shown the items that Brother Andrew had in his possession. As sure as Monsignor Leopold had been, this situation left him feeling very unsure. If there was any one game at which the Monsignor was adept, it was chess. This to him was a sort of very dangerous chess game. _ Am I doing the right thing? This is on my head if anything happens._ _I will have to see how this plays out._

Brother Andrew had his information printed up and placed into a manila folder. In addition, he had his laptop PC with him; the wireless connection gave him internet access anywhere in the monastery. An identical folder of information was now in Brother Timothy's file. _Brother Timothy has returned!_ As much as the news uplifted his spirits, he now had to think about the uses for the war cudgel he had appropriated. It seemed to mock him and glare at him at the same time. With a look of stern resolve etched upon his countenance, he grabbed up the cudgel as he left his quarters. _Time to mend the error of your ways, Brother Timothy. If you will not do so, then perhaps you will with some help from me._ Brother Andrew grabbed one more thing before he left. It was a gold medallion upon a chain; its weight around his neck felt so right…..

Brother Timothy was only too glad to see his sleeping area. His first idea was to simply undress and go to sleep, but even as weary as he was, he knew right away something was wrong. Was it that the bedding looked like the bed was so slovenly made, or was it too neat? He had been gone for a while, but he did not ever recall being that sloppy. The pillow case also looked askew. He checked his closet. The shoes he wore, instead of being tidy, looked like they had been kicked around. One robe hung askew upon its hanger. _Someone searched this place. For what?_ He did not keep anything of consequence in his room; all of his collected items were in his sanctuary that he had constructed. _Who searched my room and what were they seeking?_ Brother Timothy set down all he did not need and decided he had better check his sanctuary. He was so wrapped up in this issue that he did not see someone watching him from the shadows. A second person also watching him proceeded to shadow him as he walked to where the entrance to his sanctum was. He slowly walked out of the sleeping area into the main room of the monastery and towards the first door. The main room had only sparse illumination, so he only could hear the sound behind him; he could not see who was there. He listened for a few moments. When he heard nothing else, he unlocked the door and quickly shut it behind him. Soon he had toe door to his sanctum open and shut and the lights turned on. A quick but detailed search showed nothing apparently amiss. He set the satchel down before opening the drawer on the right side. The two tomes that had been stolen were put back where they belonged. He also put away the crossbow; he could foresee no real use for it this time. He gently set her half circlet in the drawer with a small touch of melancholy. All that he had now was the larger circlet, the debit card, and some other odds and ends from his travel outside. This included a disposable cell phone. He had it shut off; he considered them to be rather annoying, but they had their uses. He turned on his computer to type out yet another letter. He sealed it in an envelope and put the Monsignor's name upon it. He had freely mentioned the Ap Hwywd name to many people, but had purposefully neglected to mention one of the clan in particular: Sardicus Ap Hwywd. _I may not be able to kill him in battle; as skilled as I am, he may be more skilled._ Brother Timothy was practical regarding the matter; he only now faced the possibility that he would lose in this coming battle, but he did not intend to go out without a fight. He badly needed some rest, so he powered off the computer and then locked up his sanctuary. He thought he had heard yet another sound out in the main area, but he ignored it. Shortly after he had left though, a figure did emerge from the shadows. They went to the locked door and tried to open it. They had no luck with it. The person shrugged and then proceeded to follow Brother Timothy just as they were doing before.

Brother Timothy had every intention of heading back to his sleeping quarters for some needed rest, but his curiosity got the better of him. The sparring room where the monks practiced with quarterstaffs had a light on inside. He opened the door and stepped inside without even giving the action any thought. The practice staves were in their rack, but the rack was pulled away from the wall. A quick inspection showed one of the war cudgels to be missing. _That is odd,_ he thought. Where would it be? Because several monks now knew where they were kept, there were at least that many possibilities. He backed away from the area in order to pull the practice stave holder into its normal place, but he heard the door open behind him where he himself had entered; then the lights were turned out, leaving the room in darkness. Countless millennia of combat experience overrode any sense of safety and wellbeing. As, such his quick maneuver saved him from the full force of the cudgel. The blow still knocked him into the wall. He felt ribs crack under the impact. He ignored the pain and agony and levered himself quickly away from the wall. He deliberately aimed his motion towards the ground. As he fell to his back, he saw the cudgel cross above him by only 2 feet or so. He snapped himself upon his feet hoping to catch and render the cudgel useless, but its wielder was quite skilled. They snapped the cudgel back from its vulnerable position, then brought it forward as a heavy missile with an iron-wrapped end. They had pinned Brother Timothy against the wall and the floor in such a way that he could not draw his weapon; with the cudgel's reach, there was no way for Brother Timothy to get at his attacker, either. A harsh sounding voice came from the darkness, one that Brother Timothy knew. "Are you going somewhere, Brother Timothy?" Brother Timothy's assailant turned on the light. Brother Andrew was holding the cudgel, a look of victory written on his visage. "You will answer my questions if you so state that you are penitent to God. " Brother Timothy looked over at a small table that was in the sparring room. On the table was a manila folder along with some pens and a laptop computer. Brother Andrew pulled the cudgel away, but set it up by the chair in which he now was seated. "You will answer the questions I ask you, Brother Timothy, or whoever you say you are."

Brother Timothy was in shock for a few seconds, but then had to contain a rising urge to laugh. _Who in hell does he think he is? Torquemada?_ This was so ludicrous, so comical, that he had to play along with it. Brother Timothy got himself up off the floor; he had to keep from doing so too quickly because Brother Andrew had one hand upon the cudgel. He straightened out his robe, found another chair upon which to sit, and then seated himself where Brother Andrew pointed him

"It seems I taught you well, Brother Andrew," Brother Timothy made as if he still was in pain; what pain he had suffered was long gone in reality, though.

"You will lower your hood while you are speaking to me, Brother Timothy! I will not tolerate ANY insolence from you, not anymore!" Brother Andrew glared at him for emphasis.

Brother Timothy shrugged and lowered his hood. "All I see there are pens, a folder and a laptop computer, Brother Andrew; where are the thumbscrews, the rack, and the iron maiden? Also, shouldn't you be dressed up in some fancy robes? I think a white brocade—"

"That is enough from you! You will be properly respectful of those above you in standing here!" Brother Andrew took something out of the folder. He spread the three pictures upon the table. "That is unmistakably you, Brother Timothy! Why did you attack five agents of the church?"

Brother Timothy looked at the pictures and chuckled. "May I have a 5 by 7 of the center one; I did not realize I was that photogenic!"

Brother Andrew glared pure malice at Brother Timothy. "You do not realize how much trouble you are in for your actions! Only by admitting your criminal actions can you hope for any leniency from Rome in this matter! Why did you attack five agents of the church who were following the orders given to them by their superior?"

"They and I apparently were after the same thing. Maybe they need to send more than five the next time; the ones they sent assuredly were no threat to me. Especially after I injured them."

Brother Andrew was taken aback for a moment. He did not expect Brother Timothy to confess to the deed straightaway. But he was thrown off kilter only for a moment. "Interfering with an agent of the church in their duties is a grave matter, Brother."

"Interfering with me, Brother Andrew, is also a grave matter; a matter of how quickly graves can be dug for those who transgress." _This idiot is for real!_ Brother Timothy was laughing so hard inside it was almost impossible to keep a straight face, but he managed. "Was it you who trespassed upon my sleeping quarters? You were not very neat in your action."

Brother Andrew turned a harsh gaze upon Brother Timothy. "It was necessary to do so to make sure you were not hiding anything, Brother Timothy. That brings up several other matters of import." Brother Andrew slapped down another photo; this one was of a sheet of paper with some Latin inscribed upon it. "Did you write out this missive in Latin, comprising a dire threat aimed at who so ever should read it?" Brother Timothy stifled a yawn and looked at Brother Andrew. Brother Andrew slammed a fist down upon the picture. "You will look at this NOW and answer me!"

Brother Timothy glanced at the picture. He already knew what it said. "I believe I did, Brother Andrew. What I find amusing is that you have that missive in a picture. How is it that you have a copy of it?"

Brother Andrew did not answer him. He was busy at his laptop computer typing something. Brother Andrew nodded at the computer and then turned to look at Brother Timothy.

Brother Timothy repeated his question. "How is it you have documents that only the agents of the church are supposed to have?"

"That is NONE of your concern, Brother Timothy. You are in a lot of trouble! You are in so much trouble that my superior wishes to directly address this matter with you!"

Brother Timothy immediately stopped laughing inside. _His superior?_ He chose to verify that information. "Did you say your superior, Brother Andrew?"

"They were once until I was sent away to this place! I cannot believe how much this place has fallen from the true path to God! But even if we have to address the matter one monk at a time, I will gladly do it and be thankful that I can serve God!"

Brother Andrew had neglected to look at Brother Timothy for the last few moments. Had anyone else done so, they would have backed off as far as they could go, not continue on as Brother Andrew did. "Another matter of issue: Who gave you the permission to remove the holy artifacts of this monastery and WHAT gives you the right to WEAR them as you do even now?" Brother Andrew was quickly typing on his laptop, so he was not looking at Brother Timothy. As Brother Andrew looked up to glare at Brother Timothy yet again, all he saw was a blur of brown. Then a blow to his chest knocked him down to the floor. He quickly rose to his feet to grab the cudgel, but it was no longer there. The cudgel made a good amount of noise as it clattered to the floor. It now was at the opposite end of the room. Brother Andrew whirled around to look for Brother Timothy, but his action was halted once an armored hand grabbed his neck. Brother Andrew made the mistake of looking into Brother Timothy's eyes. What was there was beyond plain malice of hatred; his gaze seemed to burn through Brother Andrew. "You are Defensor Fidei." Brother Timothy said it as a matter of fact statement.

"You will take your hands—" Brother Andrew's outrage was choked off by an armored hand crushing the life from him. He did his best to unhook the hand from his neck, but it was to no avail. He heard a icy tone of voice even as he struggled to draw a breath. "Defensor Fidei state that they are the ones who are truly penitent to God. I consider them to be an insult to the name of God; by invoking God, agents of the church do God an injustice. The only choice to make now is do I cut you up into pieces and toss you upon a midden heap as the other Brothers of this monastery were treated long ago, or do I dig an extra grave for your remains? I guess there are no longer any midden heaps around, so an extra grave it will be." Brother Andrew saw his vision rapidly fading as he struggled to draw a breath of air.

Another person entered the sparring room. "No, Brother Timothy, let him go! I will not suffer murder in this holy edifice!" It was the Monsignor. His hands plus Andrews hands allowed Andrew to draw a breath of air. He gulped it in greedily as he finally managed to break free of the grip that nearly killed him. Brother Andrew staggered a couple of steps but then regained his feet as well as most of his composure. The three men now faced each other: Brother Andrew was no longer so cocksure of himself. _He would have murdered me!_ Brother Timothy was almost visibly exuding rage as he pulled his armored hand away from Monsignor Leopold. The Monsignor looked as angry as he could possibly be, although his complexion was a bit pale. "I will NOT tolerate murder in this place of God! I WILL not!"

Brother Timothy regarded the Monsignor with open contempt. "Did you know who he was when he first entered here?"

The Monsignor stepped away from Brother Timothy as he replied. "I knew of his situation, yes; he needed some place to go."

"Why here of all places? You would allow murderous vermin of this sort to pollute this place?"

"We are NOT murderous vermin! You dare to impugn us with your malicious speech—"

Brother Andrew fell silent upon getting a stern look form the Monsignor. Brother Timothy looked at the contents of the manila folder. Even though materially there was not much in the folder, what was present was rather damning in relation to what he really was. He saw Brother Andrew sidling towards the door. He would put a stop to that very quickly. He whirled towards Brother Andrew, his sword half out of its sheath. "You will die if you lunge towards that door; if I miss, I will chase you through this monastery until I pin your corpse to a wall." Both the Monsignor and Brother Andrew froze where they were. "I take it you were following me around also, Monsignor. Did you allow Brother Andrew to attack me with that cudgel as well?"

"I most certainly did not!"

Brother Timothy looked at both of them. "There is something going on here that I do not like; it makes me think of…collusion?"

The Monsignor was quick to reply. "I resent the usage of that word! All that I was trying to do in regards to Brother Andrew and I was to verify some happenings outside this monastery."

"You mean such as what we discussed first earlier?"

"Yes! I gave you dispensation to travel, not leave a trail of dead and injured in your wake!"

"I want to know right now what you told Brother Andrew." At the Monsignor's hesitation, Brother Timothy reiterated his last utterance. "You will tell me NOW!"

"We spoke only of what we saw in the papers, nothing more."

"Do you expect me to believe that? You and he were following me around here tonight. He attacked me with a cudgel in the dark, and you show up just in time to stop me from killing him? Bullshit."

The Monsignor's eyes widened. "You have no right to speak to me in such a disrespectful way! I am your superior in this edifice!"

"Despite all of that, I still say…bullshit."

Suddenly, Brother Timothy remembered that Brother Andrew was here as well. He also glanced at the laptop device. "Were you conversing with someone on this computer?"

Brother Andrew spat back, "That is not your concern! When I am done, you will be thrown out of here in disgrace!"

"Is that so?" Brother Timothy tapped the space bar on the laptop, making it come to life. While the whole screen was filled with a database search result, a text box was overlaid upon half the screen. Brother Timothy turned to the Monsignor. "I am not very happy with you at this point, sir, due to the fact that I think you are responsible for enabling this murderer of the church in his pursuit of alleged holy justice."

He looked at Brother Andrew. "With whom are you conversing on this machine? Is it the superior that you mentioned earlier?"

Brother Andrew smirked at Brother Timothy. "Even if it is, your fate is assuredly sealed. I will have you cast out of this place. The authorities may even get involved. I hope you enjoy rotting in prison. Maybe you will begin to like it!"

Brother Timothy had finally had enough. It was time to wipe that smirk from Brother Andrew's face for good. First he addressed the matter of the text box he saw. It looked like the person on the other end was waiting for a reply. He typed in that he would be right back. Now to deal with this bastard called Brother Andrew. "You know Brother Andrew, that is not the first time I have heard that. It may not really be the last time, either. When I forged this sword I now carry, I was around, but you were not. When this monastery was founded, I was there and once again you were not. When your piece of shit Defensor Fidei member named Brother Lucien tortured and killed five brothers from this monastery, I was there, but yet again, you were not. I was also there when I shot him in the head with a crossbow bolt. Long after your mortal remains are eaten up by worms, I will also be there, but you will not be there. Do you see a pattern here? I do."

Brother Andrew had at least lost his smirk. Brother Timothy waited for him to reply. "You need the care of a psychiatrist and some strong medication! You expect me to believe that crap?" Brother Andrew was openly laughing now. _I guess more extreme measures will need to be taken; I cannot simply kill him off. The monsignor is now involved. _"Monsignor, it would be a simpler matter to simply kill him and bury the body. It is a shame we just can't do that though." Brother Timothy looked around the sparring room. Someone had left a pair of scissors lying around. They would do just fine. Brother Timothy picked up the scissors and walked over to where Brother Andrew was. Brother Andrew tried to back away, but he had nowhere to go. "Brother Andrew, would you say these scissors are sharp? Let's see if they are, shall we?" Brother Timothy opened them up so that the sharp points were separated. He had difficulty grasping them with his left hand, but he managed to do so. Without any fanfare, he transpierced his hand with the scissors. Blood oozed out of the wound on both sides. Brother Andrew was looking at Brother Timothy as if he were mad. Brother Timothy proceeded to extract the scissors from his hand. He held the hand in front of Brother Andrew so that Brother Andrew could see it. A slight bluish crackle across his hand and the wound was no more. Brother Timothy washed his hand off in a nearby sink. The skin of his hand showed no blemish. Brother Andrew had nothing to say; it was as if he suddenly went catatonic. "Well, at least he is not laughing at me now, Monsignor. Now I think I will deal with this superior shithead on the computer. This may be a lot of fun."

As Brother Timothy turned to address the computer, Brother Andrew spoke. "How did you do that?"

"Do what? The scissors through my hand? That is simply something I can do; you see, I am not like you or the Monsignor. Not even a mortal wound can stop me, Brother Andrew."

"That is impossible," Brother Andrew said softly.

"Actually, it is quite possible, though I don't know exactly why. You see before you proof that it is possible." Brother Timothy was waiting for the inevitable next comment.

"Who are you? WHAT are you?" Brother Andrew was regaining composure from his initial shock. "I and others of my kind are immortal, Brother Andrew. That is I in the paintings you have here."

"You then are saying that you killed those Defensor Fidei in 1414?"

"Yes. They earned it for their treachery and perfidy they committed in the name of God. One moment. I am going to have a little talk with your former superior." Brother Timothy finally turned to the computer and began typing.

I am back now as promised

**User15:** Welcome back Brother Andrew. How are you doing regarding getting the answers that we need?

I am more than happy to give you all the answers that you want, Superior.

**User15: ** Who is this? May I remind you that this is a secure site and that we will prosecute any hackers we find?

I am Brother Timothy. Brother Andrew is indisposed at the moment, though he still is alive. I strongly advise you not to break this connection either. We have some matters to discuss.

After a rather long period of silence, more text appeared in the box.

**User15:** This is highly irregular. I am hoping that this discussion might prove to be positive?

That depends solely upon you for the most part. I take it that your agents are recovering?

**User15: **I do hope that was not an attempt at humor on your part, brother monk. That is a very serious matter indeed. Has Brother Andrew apprised you of the circumstances involved?

Yes he has. What threats he made are pointless and useless. Let's cut to the chase. I now have in possession the items you sent your agents to retrieve.

**User15:** Those items belong to Rome and Rome only. I will not have a lowly monk in a monastery claiming ownership of such! They must be returned here at one; we can also use numerous legal means if necessary!

If you give me what I want, that will not be needed. The price for the cross and writ is pretty simple: A Writ of Rescindment nullifying the original action.

**User15: **That also is a serious matter indeed. Only the Pope can authorize such as that. The request will have to go through channels…

Bullshit. Just because you can no longer excommunicate a king or queen does not mean you lack power. The other Defensor Fidei I knew were quite independent of the Pope.

**User15: **That is not true! In the Pope rests the ultimate power in things such as this.

The Pope you now have is a place holder, no more. The price is nonnegotiable: A Rescindment for the cross and writ.

**User15: **I will see what I can do regarding that matter. That still does not excuse your behavior towards the Agents of the Church you injured.

Yes it does; they attempted to retrieve the cross for themselves. Until this place has a formal rescindment, that is not going to happen. You see, I have means of leverage myself. They are necessary when dealing with people like you. You have the note I wrote; that should explain things rather fully.

**User15:** It does to an extent, but it creates more issues than it solves. How did you break into this archive to find the original warning that was written?

You give me far too much credit, superior. I do not possess that sort of computer skill. I am so sorry that you did not find an easy answer therein. Brother Lucien masqueraded as a Brother in this monastery. In reality, he was a Defensor Fidei Superior like you. He tortured and slaughtered five brothers from this monastery. He was paid back in his own coin. I left the note as a warning.

**User15: **You lack proper respect for someone of my stature.

I hold you and yours beneath contempt. You should be grateful that your agents are still alive. I still remember Brother Lucien. If you expect me to respect someone like that, then you may be as tiny minded and puerile as I can imagine.

Brother Timothy could almost sense the agitation coming from the other user in the chat.

**User15: **So you have no apology to offer for attacking my agents, you claim ownership of something that is not yours, and you dare insult me even after knowing of the rank I hold here in Rome. You assuredly are NOT an asset to the church; the church would be far better off without such as you in its folds.

That was well said; I suppose the priests caught sodomizing altar boys are a better example. You are entitled to your opinion; I feel entitled to mine. Let me tell you how things will be happening so that you have no mistake in your mind. First, you will get that writ of rescindment in exchange for the cross and writ I have. Secondly, there are some issues I have regarding Paris, France. You will make them ALL go away. Thirdly, you will dispose of all of your information on me. All things considered, Brother Andrew attacked me with a cudgel. He is still alive despite that act of violence. Is this what you teach Defensor Fidei?

**User15: **What makes you think I have that sort of influence?

Easy. Who else would be moving pedophilic priests from diocese to diocese so that they do not have to answer for their crimes? I could say that I will put a crossbow quarrel through your skull, but these are modern times. A different sort of weapon is needed. Are you conversant with the Coptic Christians?

**User15: **They are heretics as well as you, but you are nothing but a total affront to the church! You are in enough trouble so that I can have you thrown out of the monastery where you live!

That will not happen either. The Coptics still are an interesting sort. They were one of the first to adopt the concept of God and Jesus Christ. They also had what was probably the real version of the bible, not the gutted one that emerged from the Council of Nicaea. They and I got along quite well; well enough so that they let me copy some of their works. One especially is interesting. It is the epistle of Julius. Now if it were to be 'found', Rome would be so busy exercising spin control that the matter of my alleged sacrilege and heresy would be swept under the rug. The thing is, they would be able to carbon date the manuscript I have to about 15-25 A.D.

**User15: **Even if you had such as that, you would not dare do what you say.

You are welcome to not believe me if you wish. All I want is to be left alone. Instead, you send skulking spies to my monastery who attack in the dark with cudgels. When it comes down to that, I will do what I deem necessary to protect what is mine, just as you feel obligated to protect the Catholic faith from all of its enemies. Consider it in this fashion: We all can either win, or we all can lose. It is your choice; be glad you are in a position to make one.

About 15 minutes later, a reply came back.

**User15: **You battle as well as any Jesuit I have known. Regarding the answer about the written text, it has been ascertained that we do not want an answer. How do we procure the papal cross and writ?

You can undertake that matter with Monsignor Leopold. I think that you and he can faster reach a common ground.

**User15: **The other matters can also be ameliorated, but not unless we have some assurances….

Such as?

**User15:** No publication of unknown epistles or other such matters. Also, the holy artifacts stay where they are supposed to stay.

That can be arranged. If the matter of the cross is taken care of in a proper manner, then I will have no enmity towards your church agents.

**User15:** Will that also include Brother Andrew? He was sent away from here due to a bit of…overzealousness. We had no other place to put him at that time. He gets to stay there in one living, breathing piece.

Done. Anything else?

**User15: **We do NOT want any further answers about the issue with Brother Lucien. This also applies to the other things you have stated. We will encrypt what items we have that pertain to other aspects of things, but any information specifically concerning you will be digitally shredded.

It seems that we are seeing eye to eye, superior sir.

**User15: **LOL! You almost made me think you meant that!

Perhaps in time, I just might. I will see how you deal with this matter. If you choose to deal under the pale, you will regret that. That is a promise, not a threat. I need to get some sleep; am I correct that our business is concluded?  
**User15: **Yes it is. May I speak to Brother Andrew again? I will make him get rid of what information he has on you. I also think I will revoke his archive access for the time being.

I then bid you good evening, superior sir.

Brother Timothy pushed the laptop towards Brother Andrew. "It seems your friend wants to talk to you again. I would listen well to what he has to say." Brother Timothy turned to the Monsignor. "You and the person on the other end of this conversation will need to contact each other. You have work to do regarding the cross." Brother Timothy yawned. "I am in need of some sleep." Brother Timothy once more turned a baleful look upon Brother Andrew. "It will be in your best interest to do what your superior says to do." _If not, then you may yet be killed._ The implication of Brother Timothy's words were no lost upon Brother

Andrew.


	38. Chapter 37

…_.he knew where he was the moment he saw the verdancy…..Temair! He almost felt like he was home, but he knew this was a dream. He still looked with affection upon the land, with its menhirs and cairns and mounds. He __saw the Lia Fail in the distance. In a blink he was in front of it, and then he was seated on something. A distraught woman charged up to him and cast a bloody sack of charnel at his feet. I demand King's Justice! Her declaration reverberated across the area where he was; it even permeated him, leaving him with no other thought then her utterance. So be it, he heard himself say. They will arrive to prove their innocence or they will be guilty by their absence. He seemed to point at some people who were all red of hair, but one especially stood out from the rest. They had some grey in their red tresses, but it still was a fiery, vibrant red. They also had a beard and moustache; all of the other men of his clan were clean shaven. Then the scene switched to one of carnage in the same place. Bodies laid everywhere; the chair in which he had sat was spattered with gore and other even more unspeakable items. All that remained of her was her headless corpse that had been ravaged to ruin. He found her head in the carnage; an ear had been gnawed off as well as one of her cheeks. He never found her crown. Then he looked upon the scene again; this time there was no longer any carnage, but the chairs near the Lia Fail were nothing but piles of decomposing wood. It was as if a long time had passed. The Lia Fail was off in the distance. He looked at it from afar, and then at close range….there was something odd about it. It was as if there was a fleeting image within the stone. Who could that be? Then he saw that the image had a beard as well. He laughed at the image. The image in the stone seemed to be consumed with rage. Is that Sardicus? If so why was his image part of the Lia Fail? He did not even remember the Lia Fail being here. It should have been where he was before. It was then that he heard the undercurrent of voices. Flickers in his dream seemed to show Daoine Na Sidhe, and they were chanting….__It falls to you to obey what was demanded long ago….you will not shirk your duty to us…ever! __Then Blaenwys was there. She looked at him with a neutral gaze. You must return here, they wait for you! Who waits for me? They who killed me, they wait here for you. It was an onerous thing cast upon you, but the onus is upon you to finish this…..so you and I and the others can finally rest…..when you come to Temair…remember me….let no other stand in your way….Arvach! Daudi an Ap Hwywd! He drew his sword as he felt the enemy approach….._

Brother Timothy jerked up out of bed, breathing hard. _Temair calls to me…so must I answer. _ He checked his clock; it was not too far past noon. He shook his head; rarely was it that he slept past 7 or 8 in the morning. Then he realized that he had completed one of the longest nights he ever experienced. After showering, he inspected his robe. There was some fabric damage, but only on the left arm. He ran it through the washing machine with an extra scoop of powder and then laid it out to dry. It did not take too long for that to happen. While he was waiting, he got what few things he had left to do in order. The missive he created last night went into a sealed envelope. It was left in a conspicuous place with Monsignor Leopold's name on it. _If he knew what I had down in my study, he would not want me coming back alive! _ The sword and scabbard were holding up well; the arm greave looked like it still had not been battle tested. Once his robe was dry, he put it back on and covered his head with the hood. He picked up the cell phone he had been given by the Monsignor. He had only a novice's skill at using the stupid thing, but it did have its uses. Once he got it turned on, he was going to make a call, but the phone's incessant chirping led him to investigate the noise it was making. He had three voicemails that were new. Out of curiosity, he played them. Two were automated spam messages. Brother Timothy almost erased all three messages in disgust, but he was thankful he did not. It was the interloper MacLeod. Brother Timothy laughed in his usual icy tone as he dialed the number left in the message…..

**London, England**

Duncan scooped up his cell phone from the floor. The sheets of his bed were twisted into some sort of bizarre looking sculpture; he had tried to catch a nap, but it was of no avail. The voices in the background of his mind had become more strident and pervasive with each passing hour. He Looked at Amanda. She was asleep, but he could tell she was dreaming; she constantly moved as she was lost in slumber.

"This is MacLeod"

"I am returning a call from a voice mail you left me. This is Brother Timothy"

Duncan sighed long and loud. "It took you enough time to answer."

"I had the phone shut off for the interim. I had a long night last night."

"I did as well, but it sure was not very pleasant. It was full of dreams."

"So, you are dreaming as well? I also am dreaming when I sleep."

"Where is that place I seem to be in the dreams? Is that Tara Hill?"

"Yes, it is, but I call it Temair. It has been a long time since I was there."

"Amanda and I, all we hear are whispered voices. Even when we are awake, we still can hear them." Duncan heard and icy peal of laughter over the line. "Listen, you bastard! You have your items back and we are shut of you for good! How in hell do we stop these voices?"

"No. you aren't shut of them yet. The Daoine had no tolerance for interlopers in any way or in any place. When you and your friend killed the ones you did kill, you were bound by the same geas laid down 5500 years ago. You were warned that there is a price to pay for interference. Your friend Methos knew what would happen if he got involved. That is why he ran. You should have heeded his advice; now you are part of this whether you like it or not. You can ignore the voices as long as you are able to do so, but they will in time become more strident and pervasive."

Duncan noticed the change in timbre of the monk's voice. Though at times it seemed almost neutral, he could feel the icy chill behind it. _Immortals like these; they only revel in violence and hate and never miss out on an opportunity to wreak havoc. It is what they are….hateful, vengeant and unforgiving. You were wise beyond your many years, Darius. _Duncan took a moment to think on the matter. _What in hell can I do? There may be no avoiding what is to come. _He now understood what this monk had said earlier at the forge. _What the Daoine demand will be, and they will have naught to say of it._ Duncan lifted the phone to his ear. "What if we refused to play your deadly game?"

"Then you will never be shut of the voices. If they call, so must you answer. You have no choice in the matter. It is the price you pay for interference." When Duncan did not respond, the monk spoke again. "I will be leaving soon; I will go to the forge and collect my compatriots. Temair calls, they and I will answer. It would be in your best interest to be there as well. It is your choice, but then again it is not." More icy laughter was heard from the monk. "You may be able to stand against Dhurgal, but your companion may have a problem with Clydweth. She is taller then either of us, and she will probably fight in armor. Unlike Bronwyn, she is a true warrior."

"That sounds real encouraging."

"Consider it a splendid chance to wreak even more ruin. Perhaps the quickenings will lay waste to Temair. That would be interesting."

"How is it you can speak so casually about destruction and death?"

"Is there really anything else of importance? I have yet to find something that is. I hope that you come armed; it will be wise to be prepared for anything. I will be leaving today for the forge. Do not be tardy." The line went dead as Brother Timothy ended the call.

Duncan delayed for only a moment before he went to get Amanda. "Amanda, we have another problem."

He briefly told her of the conversation he had.

"Duncan, I am so sorry that this happened!"

Duncan hugged Amanda as he gave a friendly smirk. "I guess that is not a problem. You had no idea what would happen when you started your research. Did you?" Despite adopting a serious expression, his eyes told of a joke.

Amanda batted him in the head. "Of course not!" Then she took on a more serious cast to her features. "Can we trust him? Is he telling the truth?"

"I don't know if he is or not, but this mess is way the hell out of my league. I really don't think we have a choice."

"You are right, Duncan. I guess we are going to fight?"

"He said the female is taller then I am, and fights in full armor. You might be outclassed from the get go."

Amanda shrugged, "Well, it is not like we have any choice. The voices in the background are getting louder; I am finding it hard to even think at times."

Duncan arose from his chair. "Then I guess we go, then."

"When will he be there?"

"He said late tonight or tomorrow morning."

"What exactly are we going to take with us?"

"You mean besides our swords? I don't know. I think we best travel light."

**Tarborleah's Forge**

When Brother Timothy arrived, it was early evening. Though there was some activity from the forge building, it seemed less then before. He sensed Clywd and Dactal even before he entered the forge building. They were there at one of the tables, along with Marion. Marion's hair looked disheveled. Black circles were underneath both of her wide, staring eyes. Her clothing also looked unkempt. If she did not blink every so often, one would have had the impression that she was catatonic.

"Good evening, Clywd. What is wrong with your apt pupil?"

"Nothing really; I was showing her some of the ways of the Daoine. She stopped screaming after the first time, but it seems that she is a little…damaged?"

"That is rather a waste of your time, isn't it Clywd? She is immortal after all. She can't conceive."

"But we of the Daoine never waste our efforts; it should be a most interesting test. Maybe she will conceive with my seed inside of her?"

"The brutal methods or our time would not be so well accepted or tolerated now; you might want to consider that, Clywd."

"But she wanted to learn the ways of the Daoine! Who would I be if I did not teach her?" Clywd put an arm around Marion. She flinched for a moment, and then once again took up her decidedly unhealthy stare.

Brother Timothy shook his head as he turned a grim expression upon Clywd. "Despite that, your actions were beneath the pale. Perhaps somewhere in that head of yours, you might understand. But let me guess, like others of your kind, you have already forgotten about the matter?"

"Until you mentioned it again, I actually did. What is the use of remembering such fleeting moments; she really was not enjoyable." Clywd had an expression upon his countenance that made Brother Timothy think about bashing in his face, but he realized that it would do no good. He knew something else that would upset the Daoine even more. "We are not going alone. The two interlopers may yet join us." Brother Timothy smirked at Clywd's discomfiture. "

You not only suffered them to live, but you invite them to where they are not wanted?"

"We lost two of our number, and a third one won't be back anytime soon. With them in thrall, it will be a more even match then without them."

"They STILL are Interlopers! It makes me wonder if you are up to the task laid upon you! Are all humans as weak in character as this woman here?" He turned Marion's head towards him. Her near catatonic expression vanished, to be replaced by a look of rage. She slugged Clywd hard in the chest and then got up from her seat. Clywd laughed at her outburst. "Now why did you hit your teacher like that? Do you not wish to learn more of the ways of the Daoine?"

Marion's hand slid down to her waist where a small sword was sheathed. Brother Timothy spoke. "That would not be a good idea. As vacuous as Daoine minds are, they can be far more excessive in regards to emotions. If you anger him, he will kill you. You should simply consider what happened recently a hard lesson learned. Clywd has no capacity to learn from his mistakes." Marion ceased reaching for the short sword. Instead she broke out in tears as she fled the forge.

"Do not ever consider me weak, Daoine. When the defiler shows his face, he will pay in the dearest coin he can imagine. He will know some of the grief I have suffered. Also, be advised that I only suffer you due to the circumstances. One such as you can never be considered a friend. As prideful as the Daoine were in their superiority, they are puerile as a race. You condescendingly berate the human race, but we were the ones who survived, not you. If you survive the coming battle, remember this if you can, Clywd, lest someone cuts off your head."

The Daoine was livid with rage; Dactal even let out a low growl of dislike. But Brother Timothy's excoriation of Clywd's actions accomplished what was needed. No more deprecating remarks came from Clywd at the moment. "I will be back here in the morning. Please be sure you are ready. Temair awaits us soon." As Brother Timothy left the forge, he saw Marion being comforted by a young man. _Why is it that so many have to learn in the most painful fashion? She in part brought it on herself; perhaps that is the only way mortals and some immortals really learn._ He headed to the flat where he slept before. _My sword is sharp and my senses are keen. Whatever Badb and Morvran decree, at least it will be decided._

The sky was in process of greeting the Dawn when Duncan and Amanda arrived. Even at this early hour, they were surprised that the forge seemed to brim with activity. Duncan pulled up the car and they both got out. They sensed the immortals around them, but two seemed stronger then the rest. Amanda was in a cat suit, but the cloak she wore over it hid her figure well; it also did the same for her sword. Duncan had on a trench coat to hide his sword, but instead of shoes, he was wearing boots that were steel shod in addition to being of heavy weather. Without hesitation, they entered the forge. He saw the one the monk called Nathan conversing with another immortal in plate armor. There were several immortals in the room; they all went silent when Duncan and Amanda entered. They say Clywd and Dactal sitting by themselves at one table.

"Where is the monk?"

Clywd answered him in an almost condescending tone. "Are you so quick to lose your life? Why are humans so rash and infantile regarding their longings?"

"You are really funny, asshole; it's a wonder that someone hasn't shoved that sword you carry up your ass."

"As if you think you could equal me in battle? I still don't see why Ardis suffered you to live."

Duncan half extracted his sword. "Perhaps you would like to die here instead?"

Amanda put her had on Duncan's hand. "Ignore him; he isn't worth it. None of his kind are."

That brought a chuckle from a few present there. One of them offered his comment on the situation "You got that right, lassie!"

Clywd looked at Duncan. "I am sure he will be along soon. You will have to wait until he shows; that is, if the coward decides to show." Clywd laughed at his comment and then turned away from Duncan.

Duncan turned to Amanda. "With friends like these…."

Amanda laughed. She took a seat away from the elf and his companion; Duncan followed suit. As it went, they did not have to wait long. They felt him even before he walked on to the parking lot. Brother Timothy opened the door. "Greetings! I am so glad you two could make it here!"

"As if we really had any choice!"

"You interfere; you pay the price; that is so often how it works."

"Do you have any sort of plan?"

"The only one I have is to get there as quickly as possible without any delays. Shall we go?"

Clywd and Dactal arose at the same time Duncan and Amanda did. As they headed towards the door, a familiar voice spoke. It was Nathan. "Where is the group of you headed? You have need for some company? You never know what could befall you on the way to where you are going."

Brother Timothy stopped and thought for a second before he spoke. "Nathan, the offer of help is appreciated; that also goes for the help you have given to me for the other things. This, however, is not a game. There are no dungeon masters, no hit dice. The ones that we face may be beyond our capacity to defeat, and all of us are seasoned. As it goes, when we get to where we are going, we then must then journey on alone, the five of us."

"That is fair, but only recently, our horizons were broadened. This place as of late has become quite small. We would be honored of we could accompany you as far as we are allowed to go."

"Who is 'we'?"

At that utterance, Nathan signaled to several in the room. Nine immortals stepped forth. Percy was one and Marion was another. They made an impressive show dressed in their anachronist outfits. Brother Timothy was about to say no, but Duncan cleared his throat. Brother Timothy turned to Duncan.

"If there were a larger group of us in public, people might be more inclined to leave us alone. We could easily blend into the group until we got to where we were going."

Brother Timothy thought that over for a second. It kind of made sense. Though in most cases larger meant more unwieldy. In this case, it could have the opposite effect of making them far less conspicuous. "Okay, you are welcome to come along. But be careful and I would suggest that you all bring weapons." _There yet may be acolytes running around out there still. _ The group of fifteen shortly departed on a train to Wales. From there, it was no problem to get passage to Dublin, even though many fellow passengers commented on their garb. The group took it in stride.

"Sir, the monk and a number of other people just took a train to Wales, and then went to Dublin. Should we notify the cells in that area?"

Dawson thought for a moment. _No watchers will ever hound us._ "Yeah. Do that. I would like to find out what is really going on." _Actually, I want to find out what that one immortal is keeping from us. _Dawson ended the call. _What in hell are they up to now?_ The monk's warning was not something to laugh off; he had more than proved their penchant for extreme violence, but Dawson was a Watcher and his job was to watch. If things unfolded in anyway he could have imagined, it was going to be a hell of a fight. Even though the watchers were aware of immortals and tracked them, Dawson had no idea of what was going to happen next. He would learn there are some things better not watched.

**Meath County, Ireland**

The group had no problem moving through Dublin, but it was on the outskirts of the city with their goal within reach that complications began to occur. The first sign of trouble was an increased amount of constabulary in the area. This was because there was a rather large gathering of modern day druids there as well. Large groups and gatherings tend to bring even more people to their midst, and this was no exception. While still several kilometers from their goal, the transom bus was forced to halt. "There is no way I am getting any further along with the crowds that are here. This is the end of the line; if you want to go any further, you'll need to walk." The bus emptied out in response to the driver's statement. Outside of the vehicle, the general area was a madhouse full of humanity. While groups of druids were engrossed in conversation, enterprising individuals had set up stands so they could hawk all sorts of amusing items, from resin menhirs to claddagh jewelry. Interspersed with this was no small amount of petty thieves plying their trade. It had not progressed to a dangerous situation yet, so mostly the constabulary just kept a keen eye for any trouble. Several of them took a keen interest in a small group heading through the crowds, but it as quickly went away when Nathan and the others produced cards stating that they were members of The Anachronists Guild. That apparently carried some weight even in these parts, because after their initial interest, the constabulary largely ignored the group. As quickly as they could do so, the group wended their way through. It seemed to take a lot longer then it actually did, but in a relative short period of time, they had made it through the crowds and could see the border of Tara Hill in their sight. The crowds thinned to a large extent, but now they were getting the attention of a group of druids.

That was not the only problem they had at the moment either. Not only was there another group angling towards them, but the way into Tara Hill was blocked by a loose line of official looking people. They had the mark of law enforcement all over them; they had also noticed the group of which he was part. The group of druids angled towards them as the second group did, but the people blocking direct access to the park were there first. Three of them confronted the group.

"Good day to you people. How are things this day?"

Nathan spoke first. "We are doing fine. What exactly are you doing here?"

"Well, sir, we are park constabulary; our job is securing Tara Hill and the surrounding sites."

Another one of the three guffawed upon looking at Nathan. "What exactly are you? Is your troupe going to re-enact The Lord of the Rings Trilogy?"

At that, all three of them laughed.

"Idiot anachronists; why in hell can't you rent the movie and watch it on the telly like normal people do? We have enough problems just keeping away the lunatics and such from here. We do not allow any arms of any type on site; you may as well just go on home."

Their wit regarding the group attracted still more of the constabulary.

"Why is it only one of you speaks while the others remain silent?" The new arrival reached for and grabbed the left arm of one of the cloaked figures. The next moment they were stumbling backwards holding their right hand. Before they could recover or do anything the hooded figure spoke in a deadly tone of voice.

"Why is it all of you speak and none of you remain silent? Can you answer that question?" The park constabularies were really nothing more then security guards, so they did not have the larger number of weapons available to them. Basically, all they had was a club, a flashlight, and a radio.

The one who was thrown back remarked in shock, "That one whose arm I grabbed, it's covered in armor!" When he and two others moved forward with outrage on their faces, they were met by just the hooded figure that the one had grabbed. The hooded figure was silent and unmoving as he confronted the three.

"At least I hear you being silent this time; that is a marked improvement."

"Why is your arm covered in armor or such? That seems not very meet regarding such a place as this."

"That is my own concern. I have no quarrel with you, yet you are the ones that excoriate with out reason." A staring contest ensued, one which the three park constables lost. The constables saw some more conventional trouble makers a short distance off, but it also was that they found the monks stare, even from under a hood, to be most discomfiting. It was as if the hooded figure assessed them, contemplated them and then dismissed them. There was far easier prey around then a hooded figure that spoke daggers and viewed them with near utter contempt.

Even though that had been abated, now there was the group of druids that confronted the cohort. To make things even worse, there was a news crew present. They looked as if they had been interviewing the druids, but now their cameras were pointed at them. The group halted again as their path of egress was blocked by the druids. The second group was slowly approaching their right flank. This second group had something of a disheveled appearance, but there was purpose in their eyes. Brother Timothy felt them in short order. _A group of immortals._ "Take it easy. Do your best to ignore them, he whispered softly. Try as they might, there was no way of avoiding either of the groups. One of the druids seemed to be in charge of the group. He was also the one that had been talking to the reporters. He did not stop until only a meter or two separated him from the group.

"A good morning to you, sirs! Where would you be going on this fine day?"

The group was silent until Nathan spoke. "We are going to a meeting of sorts if we can get to it. What is this all about, the reporters and cameras?"

"They are here to interview me as a follow up article to the one most recently published. Why is your cohort armed? I could not help but overhear the guard's proclamation."

"I believe that is our own concern and not yours."

Sean Llewellyn looked over the group. "Who spoke thus to me?"

"I did." Brother Timothy moved to the front of the group. "Why is it that your group now assails us if by only blocking our path?"

"It is the duty of all druids to preserve Tara Hill; weapons for wreaking havoc assuredly are only for destruction. Once more I ask you: What are you doing here!"

Brother Timothy thought for a moment. At the same time he was watching the group of immortals heading towards his right flank. "We are here to gain entrance to Temair, hopefully by diplomacy," Brother Timothy showed his sword. "but use of force if necessary."

The group of druids backed away a little when they saw the sword. Ripples of commentary flowed around their group like water disturbed by raindrops. The leader of the druid group changed tack. "Where did you have that item engraved? We saw accepted, warrior, and chief on that item, but in an archaic rune text."

Brother Timothy was silent, but only for a moment. "Approach any closer and I will kill you where you stand." Brother Timothy's gaze was upon the group of immortals. "I know what you are, and you are probably associated with an Ap Hwywd. You will not live to interfere if you decide to do so." The immortal group stopped in their tracks.

Even though one of them made an attempt to speak, the head druid spoke first. "Who dares to utter the reviled Eldritch tongue?"

"I wasn't aware that it is now called reviled. You can understand my speech?_" _

Sean was in shock, though only for a moment. "I can't speak the language fluently, but I know when someone is using it and some of it I understand."

"Good. Now understand this. I and my four compatriots are going into Temair. What you call druids now are but a pale shadow of what they once used to be. You also spoke of a tainted feeling over Temair. I know what is causing it, but it will not be removed by prayers. It will need to be removed by extreme force." Sean gave a look of confusion towards Brother Timothy, so the monk repeated what he had said in English. That caused Sean and his fellow druids to back away even further in order to discuss what he just heard with the other druids. Brother Timothy turned an eye to the group of immortals. "You have something to say? Speak your peace then, before they speak again." The immortal at the front of the pack gave a sneer. "You will not be able to stand against them, you know. We won't have to do anything, because they will kill you." Brother Timothy noticed one of the immortals in the group. It was the one whose life he spared in Paris. "Ask your friend regarding what I am capable of doing; in actuality, I will not have to do anything either. You never should have attacked the watchers the way you did; you will find out soon enough that they are very capable when confronted by someone like yourself. They will hunt you down and despatch you." Brother Timothy had enough of these delays. If it wasn't pompous idiots, it was others that must drink a glass of stupid every day. The day had started out partly cloudy, but now it was fully cloudy. What started as a clear day gave over to mist, then a misty rain. That didn't quell the festive spirit of those present though.

Brother Timothy saw a few druids enter into Tara Hill, but one female immediately knelt down and puked on the grass. Her compatriots helped her out of the area. Brother Timothy paid the sick individual no mind because he was seeing something rather odd. Whether it was from the rain or something else, he could see a visible reddish pallor across Tara Hill. It was not so much as a glow but more like a patina on everything in there. He was absorbed in watching it so much it took a tap upon the shoulder to pull him away from the panorama. He once again was looking at Sean.

"Do you see what effect it has on us? She was ill the moment she set foot upon the site."

"I saw that; I know what is causing the taint, but it is a clan matter, not one of any religion."

"Clans? What sort of clans?"

"Welsh ones, or an equivalent thereof." Brother Timothy had a plan to get inside the site, but he also thought up something on the spur of the moment that would make it so he was not assailed by druid fools anymore. He took out the half circlet and showed it to Sean. "What do you make of this rune?" Sean looked at the rune as did several of his fellow druids. Then he looked at the rune closer. If it was possible for someone of his complexion to grow paler, it did in that very moment. He was not alone in his reaction either. A few of his cohort backed away very quickly. Brother Timothy viewed their reactions with a frosty smile that seemed to be gleeful in a black humored way. "Is there a problem, Sean? You look like you have seen a ghost."

Sean looked at the monk with fear on his visage. "Where on earth did you find that crown?" The monk laughed at the druid's apparent discomfiture. Sean turned to the druids remaining and shortly there was yet another heated discussion. The group of hostile immortals backed off considerably upon seeing the half circlet Brother Timothy possessed. When Brother Timothy looked again to the group of druid's, they had backed up, giving him more space then before. Though Sean had fear upon his countenance, several of his cohort were either grim lipped or possessed of a baleful glare directed at him. The recently ill female screamed an oath at Brother Timothy.

Brother Timothy replied quickly in eldritch speech. "As Badb and Morvran decree, so shall things be decided. You and yours had best not defy me as your kind have done before, for many have I sent to the other side. My rage is to be feared, and my temper is legendary. Arvach!" That made the female druid pale as well. Now he could set his other plan into motion. It was pretty simple in its execution; all it would take would be the right timing. There was not enough of the park constabulary to form a tight knit line, so it was a matter of seeing where the least number of them were. Next, he had to find a legitimate entrance to the site; it would not do any good to have all sorts of law enforcement chasing them. If they could get far enough into the site, that problem could easily go away. "Nathan, I have an idea." Brother Timothy explained his plan; it got near instantaneous approval.

Tara Hill was not a high priority terrorist target as denoted by the laws and regulations passed post September 11, so the barrier that was present was essentially a low fence on the side closest to Dublin. Needless to say, the more sparsely settled parts that abutted Tara Hill had more of a barrier, but still nothing really of consequence. The county wisely decided to allow controlled access to the site upon remitting a fee at an official entrance. Brother Timothy and the others headed towards one of these entry points. While Nathan and Percy organized the others into a sort of shield, Brother Timothy and the other four seeking entrance to Tara Hill was a few steps behind. As the rough spear head approached its goal, the ten in front sprang into action. Nathan and Marian looked to be interested in goods offered at a sales booth. Marion had no problem engaging two of the constables in a conversation while Nathan surreptitiously blocked the constables' proximity to the entry. Percy was a big fellow even without his plate armor. Nathan's workmanship was admired by some people; Percy had drawn even more away from the entrance. As quickly and quietly as possible, the other seven positioned themselves so as to cause as much potential interference as possible.

Brother Timothy looked at Duncan. "Leave it to mortals; charge as much as you can from as many as possible. I kind of view this as sacrilege."

"What, you would not charge anything?"

"No, I wouldn't; however, if a Pict decided to show up, I would have them filled with arrows. It is the meet thing to do after all."

Duncan by now had gotten used to the monk's twisted statements and his callous view of violence. He still shook his head upon hearing what he said, because one of the five was a Pict. They made it to the entry gate without any problem, but the gate keeper wasn't too happy with the group of five. Despite his sour gaze upon the party, the matter was settled with an extra fifty Euros in addition to the 10 Euro entry fee per person. As they proceeded to pass through, all hell began to break loose. A mixture of park constabulary and angry druids converged upon the entrance gate. As if on cue, they were blocked momentarily by Nathan and the other nine immortals. All that Percy had to do was stand his ground; even without his plate armor on, he was of formidable size.

"It is advisable to make as much haste as possible so as not to have any more interference."

"Why are the druids pissed off?"

"Apparently they can not only understand some Eldritch speech, but I can bet that they are well versed in all manner of legend and such that pertains to this area. Some of them may not believe what they have seen, but others are of a more pragmatic bent; those that fluently speak the Olden Tongue are to be feared and reviled, for they only bring ruin in their wake. They knew more than I thought was possible."

"But why regard it with such hostility?"

"They have embraced the peaceful aspects of being a druid, but they refuse to acknowledge the darker aspects of the same. We need to head to where the Lia Fail is." Brother Timothy headed off at a fast walk, saying one more thing. "Be prepared for anything. It has been so long since I have been here." As the five traipsed across the verdant land, the soft rain became at times almost nonexistent, then at times more powerful. Brother Timothy could still see a sort of red patina on the surrounding area. He wasn't sure if the others could or not.

The ten immortals knew that they could only delay the inevitable pursuit, but they did so as long as possible. Eventually, their blocking tactics no longer worked. It was easy to play dumb when questioned by the constabulary or angry druids, because they really did not know anything. Despite the rain at times coming down rather heavily, several of the constabulary along with several incensed druids formed a group to pursue the five they considered to be a threat to Tara Hill. Sean agreed to come along, though he had serious misgivings about this. He had an idea what that rune was on that crown, but the others told him he was mad. _He said the Lia Fail boomed three times. Welsh clans? They had not existed for centuries!_ Sean had read the folk tales though; he always thought there was simply too many of them regarding Tara Hill for all of them to be myth. There was for an example the story of Blaenwys the peaceful that was slain by those corrupted. Her husband had exacted a terrible price for her demise; some say he still hunted the last of those who participated in the foul deed…_Is it he that now hunts?_ That glyph was beyond that denoting Chieftain, but he was unsure of what it was exactly. It predated anything modern that he had read though.


	39. Chapter 38

The cells in Dublin were notified of events. In a short period of time, the cells all had watchers out in the general area looking for the group. They found the group, but they found something more interesting at the moment: a small group of proscribed immortals. The moment that they saw the five enter Tara Hill, four watchers stayed in the general area while several more tracked the proscribed immortals. All of this information was relayed to Dawson, but it still did not give him any answers. Except for letting a group of druids and park guards through, no one else could gain entrance into Tara Hill; the entry booths were on lockdown pending the arrival of a police presence. _Well, while they are there, they won't be around here._ The potential consequences of what he was going to have done were outweighed by the number of watchers that had been slaughtered. He could do nothing about Tara Hill at the moment, but there was something else he could fix…..

**Tara Hill (Temair)**

It was not a short hike to their goal, but Brother Timothy kept up a harsh pace. Even now, he could see the rain lessening; if it stopped, they could be seen from a further distance. That was only part of why he wished to make haste. _It has been so long since I trod upon this sacred place of places. Today, it comes to an end, one way or another._

"Yes, it ends here"

Duncan looked at him. "What?"

"I was thinking out loud, it is nothing." They had to cross an ancient roadway before they finally were in sight of their goal.

"Duncan, the voices in my head will not stop!"

"I have the same problem, Amanda. Just ignore them and concentrate upon what we are doing now."

Brother Timothy could almost empathize with them…almost. He did not hear castigating voices in his head; what he suffered might be called even worse. Unless he concentrated on his goal, scraps and pieces of his life from long ago would filter into his conscious mind. Once there, they were hard to shut out….even as they trudged across the green of Temair, little scraps would filter into his mind. He saw a cracked and toppled menhir. _Do you remember when they erected that? _Next were the ruins of a stone wall. _ I helped build that house long ago! It was such a sturdy house too! STOP IT! _Brother Timothy fought to clear his mind of all but the coming conflagration.

As they crested a mound, the Lia Fail was now in sight. _He could see the red virulence upon the stone. Who had defiled the Lia Fail! Whoever did would pay for it! He smiled as he thought of the bloodshed to come. It was like_—"

"Brother Timothy, what do we do when we come upon the stone?"

Brother Timothyshook his head to clear his mind. "I am not really sure. Something will happen once we reach the stone." He heard voices off in the distance. They were still a considerable distance away, but he knew now that they were being pursued. Fortunately, the Lia Fail was at the very top of the approaching mound. _Something is not right! This is not supposed to be here!_ Brother Timothy closed his eyes for a second and rubbed his temples. He felt only slightly better. Despite the rain, Brother Timothy and the others were soaked in perspiration. It was a long slog up the mound, but at last their feet trod on a smooth surface. It surrounded the Lia Fail in a circle; in the center was the stone. Brother Timothy quickened his pace. Soon he stood next to the stone and….nothing happened. Brother Timothy looked around in confusion. _This is where I need to be, but nothing is happening!_ His look of confusion was replaced by a look of disgust. He stalked up to the stone as if he intended to do battle with it. He stopped and faced the stone. _I feel the red patina on the stone, but not on the ground around it. What is wrong?_ He placed his hand on the stone, feeling the smooth surface slick with moisture. _Do you remember me?_ The stone answered with a booming sound, though to Brother Timothy, it felt discordant and impure. The second boom jolted through him, leaving a foul aftertaste within his being. The third boom staggered him with its more than physical force. The Lia Fail also glared a murderous, if pale red before it went silent. Though he was staggered by the last sound, he happened to be looking to the north. A flare of red emanated from there as well.

"Who moved the Lia Fail? This is not where it is supposed to be."

Amanda answered. "There was a battle here in the late 18th century for the independence of Ireland. Allegedly a large number of the fallen were interred here. They moved the stone to mark the grave."

"This is An Forradh. We have some traveling to do still."

"Where to now?" Duncan was beginning to get skeptical. Brother Timothy snapped out of another fugue to answer.

"North of here, where the Lia Fail used to stand." The group heard noise in the distance; even through the rain and mist, they could see people headed towards them. For some reason, the group had stopped.

The pursuing group consisted of several of the park constabulary and no less than ten druids. Sean was amongst the druid contingent. They made relatively decent headway over Tara Hill. When they got to the ancient road, they were met by more constabulary along with five or six disheveled looking types. "Who are those scruffy people?"

One of the joining constabulary snickered, but one of the unkempt ones answered. "If you don't want our help, then we can just bring these vehicles back from where we got them." The initial group of constabulary as well as the druids fell silent. They quickly clambered aboard the three modified buses that were brought along. The buses ran on clean fuel versus gasoline or diesel. Though it cost them some power, the vehicles did not pollute the area and their wide tires minimized the damage to the terrain.

"Which way were they headed?"

"The Lia Fail was their goal," one of the druids shouted out. "We need to get there before they commit yet more desecration!" Several of the druids looked rather pale as if they were sick. The three buses rolled up the hill as fast as the drivers dared to drive.

"I see them over there!" The buses headed in that general direction. _Boom!_ The sound was impossible to miss even in the confines of the vehicles. _Boom! _The sound was even more unmistakable to those familiar with the legends. The buses still forged ahead, closing to a short distance from the group of five who had made it in ahead. _BOOM!_ That startled the bus drivers enough so that they all halted.

"What in hell was that supposed to be?" one of the constabulary yelled out.

"Do you not know the story of the Lia Fail?" The druids were conversing again amongst themselves.

"We can just drive up there and seize them. We outnumber them!" The constabulary got out of the three buses. What rain that was falling was little more than a mist, so they were not that discomfited. "Hey, Charley, I thought there were five of them. I only see four."

"Now that you mention it, you're right. Where in hell is the other one?"

It was taking Brother Timothy a visible effort now to block out the pieces of his past life. It was getting worse by the minute. _I wondered why I rarely set foot here after the sundering. Now I know why. There is no way to make things better unless what was started here is finished once and for all. _Seizing on that grim purpose, Brother Timothy managed to clear his mind. Their pursuers were walking towards them at a steady pace. He counted no less than 15 Park constabularies along with what appeared to be 10 druids. There were others interspersed with them. He knew who they were. _They apparently do not listen very well. I thought I was shut of those murderous youngling pests earlier. _If there was any time to put an end to this idiocy regarding these authority figures, now was the time. He looked at the other four. "Head north as I said to do. I am going to deal with these pests once and for all."

"Brother Timothy, killing them is not an answer! There are other ways then slaughtering at will!" Duncan was adamant about his view as he glared at the monk. "

"I have no intention of killing any of them. I intend to scare the shit out of them. They have some of those pestilential immortals in their group though. If they wish to die, so be it." Without another word, Brother Timothy seemed to disappear into the misty rain.

The constables and the druids formed a loose group as they headed towards the Lia Fail. They managed to close within a few meters of the group, but they did not fully close the distance. The druids were the ones least inclined to confront the group of four. A constable called out.

"You there! Stop where you are!" The group stopped, facing the group of constables and druids. A few of the immortals skulked around the edges of the formation. "Now, you four get over here this instant! We are not going to have you vandalizing any of this site for any reason! There were five of you before, where is the fifth member of your party?" The constables felt pretty sure in their numbers for the moment. As a single group, they moved forward. Duncan called out, "You might want to ask them yourselves."

He and the other three began to retreat in a slow fashion. Suddenly, out of nowhere the fifth member of their group was directly in the constables' path. The monk's hood was so low over his head it was as if he had no face. The unexpected appearance of the monk caused constable and druid alike to halt. One of the constables got up enough assertiveness to speak.

"You there in the monk's robe; you and your four companions are coming with us! We will tolerate no desecration of this sacred site!"

The monk took a step forward and then halted. "No, I and my companions are continuing on to our destination. You and yours had best leave here for your own safety."

Several of the constables laughed. "Is that so, now?" The constable who spoke charged forward to close the distance. The monk unhooded themselves and reached behind their back. There was a sort of rasping sound then a whistling sound. The constable stopped dead in his tracks. Less than a meter from his person was the tip of a large sword as black as he had ever seen. In addition, a blue tendril of quickening fire sparked and hissed as it ran up the blade and then the wielders arm. The once brave constable stepped back in a hurry.

"Bloody hell, that sword is nearly five feet long! You will put that down immediately, sir!"

"No, I will not. It is mine and I am keeping it with me. I said for you and yours to back off or there will be some problems." The monk held the sword with a steady grip as he stared down the constables.

The druids approached then. One of the female druids mouthed a rhyme aimed at the monk. "DarkSword, DarkSword, come to slaughter, Father, Mother, Sons and Daughters!"

"That is an amusing rhyme, from where did you learn it?"

The druid snarled a reply, "It is a rhyme used to scare children these days; you DARE to carry that defiling blade into Tara Hill?"

Brother Timothy thought about that for a moment. "I carry it for my defense against those who would mean me harm. I haven't been called DarkSword for a long time."

The druid backed away with a look of fear in her eyes. Sean stepped forward despite the protests of his fellow druids. "Who exactly are you? Your monk's garb I feel is but a disguise."

"I don't think you really want an answer to that, do you? It is so nice that you and yours emphasize the peaceful aspect of the druids, but you have no idea of the fact that druids were never all that peaceful at one time."

The monk laughed as he beheld the group facing him. Sean, though he found some of his paradigms under assault, still stood his ground. "There is a folk tale of a peaceful queen called Blaenwys. She was murdered by those who defiled. It is said that her husband will not rest until he has his vengeance." Brother Timothy was speechless for one moment, and then he replied. "I don't know how a story such as that survived. Blaenwys was the one who taught me to read. Perhaps she was peaceful for her time." Sean repeated the monks' words to himself, and then he did so again. _This is impossible! _

The monk was speaking again. "Is this the answer you want?" The monk strode up to the Lia Fail and laid his right hand upon the stone. Once again there were three booming sounds in response to his action. He then smiled at the group of druids. Sean shook his head as if he could not digest what he had just heard. Brother Timothy continued on though as if nothing had happened. "Millennia ago, when the Daoine walked these lands, havoc ruled where law did not. Now comes the time when a matter will be settled between Clan Anon and Clan Hwywd. You and yours had best be gone, lest you reap some of the havoc that will soon follow."

Sean was wide eyed, but managed to keep his composure. He backed away, still repeating to himself what the monk had said. He looked at the other druids. "We need to go, all of us. This matter doesn't concern us and we don't want any part of it."

Without waiting for their reply, he left towards one of the buses. In a short moment, the druids all had left the area and boarded one of the vehicles. The constables were none too happy at the confrontation, but the majority convinced the minority that they wanted no part of this either. Despite the fact that the constables' education level was on average not that high, many of them were local born and raised; that included some of the folklore as well. The winning blow was that a number of them were looking forward to a pint at the local pub. It sure beat standing in the rain talking to a bunch of freaks, especially one in particular that carried a heavy blade. The few immortals that were there also left, seeing as how they now stood alone.

Brother Timothy sheathed the sword and then joined the other four. "They will not be bothering us anymore. I managed to scare off the druids; the constables followed. I am capable of diplomacy, MacLeod; I just do not find it as fulfilling as killing those who oppose me." Brother Timothy smiled a frosty smile as he headed north with the four others in tow.

Brother Timothy knew they were approaching the right area. He could feel the taint even more strongly here. His thoughts were now punctuated with strange horn calls and fluent Eldritch speech. He called a halt just beyond the Mound of The Hostages. They had arrived. The rain at the moment was a steady downpour, but none of the five were affected very much. They were at the rear of The Mound of The Hostages. Instead of moving forward though, Brother Timothy walked a path that would take him around the noted site. Without a word, the others followed. At last they were around the site and stood off to one side of it, giving them a clear view of the front. "This was where the Lia Fail once stood." He pointed at an area due north of the mound. "This is where they wait."

Clywd walked over to where Brother Timothy stood. "It only remains to be seen whether you are a coward or whether you are willing to face him. Will you run as you did before?"

"I was banished that time. I now know why I never really set foot upon this place afterwards; it holds too many memories for me. Even now they assail me. Will you be able to do your part, Clywd Ip Hear'n? Taeg after all killed and ate your child. Let us hope that by that act, you will have the skill to exterminate it" Clywd nodded his agreement before he fell silent. Duncan had a look of disgust upon his features, but he held his tongue. The monk's casual treatment of even sickening violence had finally inured him somewhat. Brother Timothy looked at the area in front of them. Besides the entrance to The Mound of the Hostages, there were numerous menhirs and such scattered around the area. There was not much to denote where the Lia Fail originally stood; all that he could see was a flat looking grassy area. He stood away from them and drew his sword. "I would do the same in your case as well; once this area is breached, you may find yourself quickly assailed."

Duncan drew his sword, but was also looking at the area. He did not _know_ why there was a boundary here, but he knew there was one all the same. He and the others were standing just outside of it. He reached his hand in over the boundary. It was near midday at Tara Hill, and the rain though not heavy, was drenching…..

….It was clear and sunny this day in Temair, though a bit chilly. He made a mental effort to block out the voices in his head, but he suddenly realized that they were no longer there. Something was moving by the entrance to the mound facing him….

….Duncan pulled his hand back and was staggered as the voices that assailed him rose in volume inside his head. He was only barely able to keep his balance. He felt a great sickness in his guts as well, but it passed after a few moments. The voices that assailed him now were at a much lower volume. He shook his head as he once again stood upright.

"Duncan, are you okay?" Amanda asked.

"I am ok now; don't do what I just did though." Duncan turned his gaze upon Brother Timothy. "What in hell was that? I reach over from where we are and the weather changes as well?"

Brother Timothy was shaking his head as if he needed to concentrate. "I really have no idea. I have not set foot here for a long time; there were some times when I forgot this place existed." Brother Timothy stepped over the boundary. Nothing happened. "How could he be here after all this time? Why did he not come out and assail me as the others did?"

Duncan looked at the monk. "Who would that be?"

"Someone possibly more powerful then I. He must be here as well."

Duncan snorted. "Dougal was powerful enough as it goes. You are as well. Who is the one of which you speak?"

"His name is Sardicus. I don't fear the others. I have beaten Dhurgal and Clydweth in fair battle. Taeg is nothing provided you are aware of it." Brother Timothy looked at Duncan and the others. "Battle well all of you. I must puzzle this out myself if there is to be an end to this matter." Duncan shrugged and raised his sword as he stepped forward…

Despite their priorities, the Watcher organization had some leeway given to its members under the right conditions. That was why two of them were a distance away from the group of five, but well concealed. Various telescopic devices were with them under the camouflaged blanket. They had dressed warmly as well as brought a large amount of food and drink. As the scenario unfolded, the two hidden watchers were recording what they could. Right in front of their eyes, one of the group of five disappeared, followed by three others at short intervals. That left only one standing where five stood a moment ago…..


	40. Chapter 39

…It was a sunny day at Temair, though a bit chilly. A steady breeze blew across the greensward as Duncan looked quickly around. The sky was a nearly cloudless blue. He could hear birdsong in the distance. He knew where he was, but this felt…different. He did not let his guard down for a moment as he scanned the area. How in hell can this be, he thought. He looked around his general area; none of the other four were with him. He slowly walked toward the mound nearby to his location. To his left, he noticed a flattened area of a circular design…..

…he awakened with a start from his slumber. It took him only moments to clear his head. HE was nearby! He could sense it! His patience had paid off! The destroyer was here! Dhurgal quickly got up from where he was resting. A loose pebble caused a misstep; he kicked at the pebble with a foul oath and then emerged into the sun. Where was HE! Dhurgal began to get angry when he could not find him anywhere, but someone else was present. Diplomacy did not even cross his mind as he moved towards them with the silence of an animal, sword raised to kill….

Duncan was fortunate yet again. Something or some sound caused him to whirl as fast as he brought up his sword. He was confronted by another male. They had the looks of the one he had killed, but there were some differences. This one was pushing seven feet tall! They still had the flaming red hair and green eyes of the other one. "

I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod!"

The male snarled a simple reply in fluent Eldritch tongue. "Today you die as my brother did! Arvach!" The idyllic scene was racked by swordplay and battle…..

…Amanda was somewhat awestruck by the scene she saw here at Temair. It was at the same time almost idyllic yet dangerous. Sunlight shone upon the scene that beheld her, but she could also see gathering storm clouds on the horizon. Fitful gusts of wind buffeted her around as she fought to get her bearings. She moved across the front of the mound because it seemed that she saw movement around some of the anonymous menhirs. She was not mistaken. Whoever the person was, several things were apparent. They were clad head to toe in plate armor. Included with the armor were a broadsword and a shield. They towered over her by at least a head. The armored one was conversing with some furry thing, but the furry thing disappeared in a blink of an eye. Amanda suddenly felt that she was outclassed. How can I fight someone like this? She appeared to have no real choice in the matter though, because the armored figure had seen her. They walked towards her with a definite purpose in mind.

"Who are you?" Amanda spoke in the Eldritch tongue because it felt right to do so.

"You killed Bronwyn! I am your DOOM!" The armored person charged towards Amanda with sword upraised…..

…it was overcast at Temair. A raw wind whipped across the flat plain of Temair. It did little to totally dispel the mists that were on the ground. Clywd and Dactal looked around. They saw the Lia Fail where it was supposed to be, but it had the look of corruption all over it. Dactal only growled at the radical change of the scene, but Clywd was busy looking around seeking his enemy.

"We must work in concert; the beast may have more power than either of us."

Dactal nodded in agreement. She had her sword in her right hand and her spear in the left. They both heard the snarling and growling long before it appeared on a small rise. It capered in glee upon the rise as it observed the two. It carried a crude cutting implement, but its real weapons were its teeth and claws. It did not even bother to speak before it attacked. Soon, havoc reigned as the three joined battle…

Brother Timothy could not understand it. The others had all disappeared, but he was still here. He needed to be at another _here,_ not this one. The rain came down with increasing force, forcing him to duck within the passage of the Hostages mound. _What is wrong? What have I done wrong?_ He was only answered with the rain and lightning and moisture. He had sheathed his sword, but he still was stranded here! It was as if the gods had abandoned him to his fate, never to see an end to this, never to have peace. He screamed out curses to the heavens, but no one answered him. His features began to gain an ugly cast as rage and hatred suffused his being…..

…Even though the giant did not wear any armor, his reach more than made up for the deficit. Though his sword was of crude construction, the giant had the strength to wield that as well. What good is any sort of finesse when your opponent can simply nullify it with brute force? Duncan was learning a lot battling this foe and he had evidence of such. Several bruises he had gotten were slowly fading, but they still were painful. A savate kick to his opponent only got a massive back hand in return. His foe was simply of too big a size for attacks of that sort to faze him. They battled along the grass back and forth. Duncan did not like to give ground, but he had no choice. He had no chance of deciding this by brute force, so it fell to him to use what advantages he did have. He was faster then the giant was. He could see how the giant's attacks would be futile against the monk because the monk was carrying such a massive sword. His katana did not have that sort of reach, and nor did it have the weight either. His only immediate plan was to give ground so as to tire his foe. It seemed to be working to some extent. His foe was breathing hard and getting angrier by the moment. Duncan had learned long ago that anger in a fight caused stupid mistakes for the one who was angry. All he had to do was somehow bide his time until that happened. He dodged a slash from Dhurgal's sword that would have done grievous injury had it landed. Duncan skipped away out of Dhurgal's reach as he brought up his sword in yet another guard position. Dhurgal simply charged, counting on his size and strength to get him through. His reward was a cut across his chest from the Katana. Duncan at that precise moment lost his footing and fell painfully to the ground, though he still had his sword. Dhurgal ran in as fast as he could to take advantage of the fall, but Duncan rolled himself until he had enough momentum to raise himself off of his feet. He only got to his knees before he had to parry another crude strike from Dhurgal. Dhurgal's foot crashed into his chest, knocking the wind from him as well knocking him back. He rolled down the hill uncontrolled for a moment, but then seized back control. His ribcage hurt from that impact! He still managed to hold on to his sword though. His downhill momentum was faster than Dhurgal could run, at least momentarily. Rather than let himself be pushed down the hill, he quickly tried to flank Dhurgal, putting them on at least equal height. When Dhurgal momentarily overextended on a sword blow, Duncan kicked him in the knee. It was a solid blow, but it seemed to have little effect on Dhurgal, due again to his monstrous size…..

..Amanda coughed and spat blood into the grass before she quickly got to her feet. The armored person was laughing as they trotted down the incline towards her. Amanda had just been shield bashed and it did not feel good. She had scored several hits on this armored person, but their armor absorbed anything she could produce. She had made a mistake by coming in close to do battle, thinking that would nullify some of her opponents advantages, but what she had received was a shield bash that tumbled her down from the top of the mound. By the time the armored person had reached her though, she was not out of sorts. Maybe I need to approach this on another sort of tack, she thought. If I can damage the armor, they will lose free movement. How could she hope to do so? She parried numerous blows aimed against her until she finally got a break. The armored person was overconfident in their ability of their armor to protect them. This meant that they were taking risky chances with some of their maneuvers. When Amanda got an opening, she aimed a solid kick at a knee joint in the armor. It took a few tries, but she was rewarded with the left knee joint of the armor freezing up. This slowed the knight considerably. Because Amanda was not burdened with armor, she could move faster. There was no way she could damage an elbow joint upon the armor because of the sword and shield. Like it or not, her foe was skilled at using both to their advantage. She decided to concentrate on the other knee joint instead. Seizing on a perceived opportunity, she ducked inside a sword sweep and kicked at the right knee joint with all her force. She had bent the metal and possibly damaged it, but it cost her; the edge of the knight's shield caught her on her right side. She rolled down the hill without her sword in hand. The knight laughed at her folly and then headed towards her to finish her. Amanda was far from finished though. The knight had lost considerable mobility in their legs due to the damage Amanda had caused. She got up quickly, ignoring the pain, and then looked around the area. She saw some small rocks not that far away. I can't cut off a head with these, but she came up with a different plan. She could easily keep out of the way of the knight now due to the damage to their armor. She picked up a rock in her left hand and hid it behind her while she picked up a smaller rock with her right. She threw it at the knight, who blocked it with their shield, but she had expected that. More rocks followed; most hit their target. She stayed out of range of the knight while she pelted them with a barrage of rocks. She put on a burst of speed and cut around the knight only long enough to retrieve her sword. The knight laughed when she sheathed the sword, but stopped doing so when more rocks sailed toward them. She fixed her target in her mind while watching how the knight reacted. She threw a small stone at the knight's right hand side, but made it seem as if she was throwing a larger one. When the knight overcompensated for the attack, Amanda switched the larger stone hidden in her left hand to her right hand and threw it with full force. It bonged loudly as it hit the knight in the head, knocking the face plate closed and denting it. The knight now was blinded by the throw. Amanda silently slipped inside the knight's guard and tripped them. It was the knight's turn to roll painfully down the hill. Amanda followed closely with another rock. She leapt upon the knight while they flailed their limbs to get back up. With her rock, she dented the knight's helmet to ruin. She then brought the rock down on the knight's right elbow, damaging it as well. With an adrenaline frenzy that comes from hard combat, she smashed the knight's right hand, forcing them to release the grip on their sword. She set down the rock and managed to grab the sword. A lucky blow with the shield hit her on the side of the head and knocked her away. She tasted blood as her ears rung with the impact, but she could not stop now. The knight was reaching for their helm trying to force the visor open, but they were having no luck. Amanda had succeeded in making the knight lose their grip upon their sword, but they still were a dangerous opponent. She stood back while the knight still flailed at their helmet. They managed to bend their right arm enough to grip the helm and unfasten it. It rolled off across the ground. Amanda was startled that it was a woman, though she had been told as much. She was a much bigger version of Gwyneth except that her left eye was ruined. The knight realized that her sword was out of reach and that she was now vulnerable. They swung with the shield, but Amanda skipped back while she drew her own sword. The knight lunged for their sword to pick it up, but Amanda was faster. It was a clean blow from her sword. Clydweth's head rolled a short distance down the hill before it stopped. Amanda collapsed to the ground and lay there in near total exhaustion….

….Taeg came at Clywd and Dactal with no finesse or plan. It was relying on its speed and power to win the day. It was a brown blur as it attacked Dactal. Claws ripping and shredding. Dactal sustained some injury, but she finally got a grip on part of the bog beast. She ripped it away from her throat and smashed it to the ground. Her foot missed it by inches as it quickly recovered and skittered off in another direction. She looked for Clywd and saw him nearby, but the bog beast was attacking her again, biting and snarling and ripping. Dactal screamed in pain, but managed to get a hold of the beast again. She slammed it to the ground with all the force she could muster. Taeg hit so hard it bounced. Clywd was upon it in a swift moment, sword flashing, but all he got was a little fur and a shriek of fury. Dactal had some grave injuries; it was only her constitution that allowed her to keep on fighting. They seemed to heal very slowly for some reason. The two of them scanned the area but could see nothing of their attacker. It suddenly appeared and savaged Dactal's leg. She grabbed it again, but this time it stabbed her in the abdomen with its cutting implement, impaling her. Her next scream brought a stream of blood that flowed down her chin. Clywd stepped in and swung with his sword, gashing Taeg across the chest. It sprang away from its original quarry, leaving its blade embedded in Dactal. Dactal slowly sank to her knees as more blood flowed from not only her mouth, but the wound. As Clywd bent down to inspect her wound, Taeg attacked again. It seized a hold of Clywd's face and savaged it. It ripped out Clywd's left eye and ate it. It was Clywd's turn to scream as he recoiled from the damage. Taeg clawed open Clywd's chest with its hind claws as it bit at his face repeatedly. Clywd fell to the ground where with his waning strength he wrestled the creature. Despite his wounds and the pain, he managed to cast it away, but not for long. The creature bit into his left arm and ripped away a chunk of flesh. It screamed with a gurgling sound as it masticated the flesh. Blood spattered the general area as Taeg capered and chittered next to the elf and the Pict. Dactal still had enough strength to grab her spear. It took all of her concentration, but she finally had it raised to strike. Taeg made the mistake of getting too close to her in order to retrieve his cutting implement. Using all of her strength, Dactal speared the bog beast through the chest, impaling it upon the ground. Taeg screamed as it clawed at the spear that transpierced it. It took its attention away from Clywd and Dactal. They both now lay upon the ground with not enough strength to rise up. Fortunately for them, it did not matter. Both Clywd and Dactal had their swords in hand. As one, they swept them over and down. Taeg's chittering was silenced forever as its head rolled away from its corpse….

Brother Timothy sat inside the opening cradling his head in his hands. He was to the point where he couldn't function. He could not extract one coherent thought, so powerful were the memories assailing him. They crossed his mind too fast to even see what they were, but they were there. Pictures of meetings upon Tara Hill were interspersed with castigating eldritch speech. …_interloper…betrayer…..your god is not welcome here….._ What god, he thought. He was Brother Timothy…._you now are he, but you were not before...You do not do proper obeisance to the gods you once worshipped….you don't belong here… He still did not understand what they meant. He was supposed to be here! _But how was he supposed to be here? He was penitent to god…..the voices assailed him anew. He looked down at his neck. There was a cross on a chain there…._we know naught of that god!_ They wouldn't have known of God. He was not around when they walked the land! He decided that it was worth a shot. He pulled off his monks robe and dropped it on the ground. The voices still assailed him, but not as bad as before. He undid the chain that held his cross and dropped that as well. Suddenly, the castigating voices stopped. He was rapidly becoming chilled only in his underclothing, but it had to be; it was the only way it could be….

…Duncan had sort of fought Dhurgal to a stalemate. Duncan ascertained that Dhurgal had no real finesse; instead, Dhurgal counted on his size and strength alone to assist him in battle. Both combatants showed the signs of battle. Duncan's coat was in tatters as well as the shirt beneath it. He was also getting tired. Dhurgal was also breathing hard. He had cut Dhurgal across the chest, but had only narrowly dodged a massive kick from him. Each time he tried to gain the top of the mound, Dhurgal cut him off. Dhurgal was trying to force him down to the bottom of the mound, but Duncan was aware of this. It was a simple matter to use his speed to move to the side. I may not be able to match him blow for blow, Duncan thought, but perhaps I can injure him. Instead of meeting Dhurgal's blows as they fell, he started using shorter, more conservative movements. It appeared to be working. He ducked a massive blow from Dhurgal, and then managed to cut him on his sword arm. Duncan's footing was in peril as he trod upon some small stones, but he kept his balance with no small amount of thanks to all of his rigorous training. He decided to try a risky maneuver to see if he could gain an advantage. The next time one of Dhurgal's blows came at him, he shied away as if he were going to run, but darted in the gap and pierced Dhurgal in the abdomen. Dhurgal screamed in rage and grabbed MacLeod with his free hand, meaning to crush him to a pulp. Duncan had expected this to happen. This would not be the first time he suffered damage on the way to winning a battle. He quickly withdrew his blade and slashed at Dhurgal's sword arm, cutting deep. He then bashed his head as hard as he dared into Dhurgal's chest. The impact hurt him in no small amount, but it was enough to knock Dhurgal off balance. He twisted out of Dhurgal's grip as he kicked Dhurgal as hard as he could. He heard ribs crack with the impact. Dhurgal had no serious grip upon his sword due to his wound, thus it gave Duncan all the advantage that he needed. Dhurgal thudded to the ground as Duncan skipped out of reach of Dhurgal's flailing limbs. Dhurgal grasped his sword in his left hand, but he obviously was not ambidextrous. He made several clumsy sweeps with the sword with the intention of keeping Duncan away until he could gain his feet, but it was of no use. Duncan used all of the force he could muster as he brought his feet down upon Dhurgal's left arm, smashing it to the ground; he could see the right one healing as he struck, but he had essentially disarmed his opponent. He neglected to notice Dhurgal's right arm flashing with something. As he stepped in for a final blow, he felt a searing pain and numbness in his left side. He looked down to see a long dagger embedded to the hilt in his side. He watched as first a trickle of blood was followed by much more. He could feel his limbs losing motion as life fled from him, but he looked down upon Dhurgal's grimacing visage. That gave him all the strength he needed. A sweeping cut from his katana severed Dhurgal's' head from his body. Dhurgal's visage still possessed the grimace even in death. Duncan felt the world turn to black as he fell down on his right side…..

He walked out of where he had hidden, unmindful of the cold and chill and rain. The voices no longer assailed him as he raised his hands to the sky. The gray clouds above him took on a more malevolent color as lightning began to strike the area where he was. Some was white in color, but others were blue and a dark, ugly shade of purple. He did not care as he was struck repeatedly by the storm. Lightning crackled and struck all over, kicking up gouts of dirt and grass and smashing or scorching menhirs. He tried to find shelter from the onslaught, but he could not see because of the storm's violence. He was knocked to the ground repeatedly by the wind and the lightning. The noise was all engulfing, bright streaks of illumination from the lightning and the destruction caused. He fell yet again, but his head struck part of a menhir…all went to black…

...Amanda thought it was odd as she nursed her pain. She had killed her opponent, but felt no quickening. She thought maybe she had not done so, but the headless corpse told otherwise. It took all of her strength to stagger to her feet. The scenery had not changed, though the storm clouds were closer. Then she felt it in all of her being…she looked at Clydweth's corpse as it rose into the air. A bluish glow that looked like a small sun began to emanate from the corpses neck….oh shit, she thought as the world went blue with pain and sundering; it felt like she was being ripped apart….

Duncan lay on the grass, too weak to move. He looked dead by any standards of seeing, but he wasn't. He gasped as he reanimated in worlds of pain. He managed to extract the dagger, but that was all he had the strength to do. He felt a static in the air. Dhurgal's corpse glowed and seethed as energy and power leached from his body. The first assault of the quickening blasted him off the mound of The Hostages and dropped him like a sack of grain at the entrance. Jolt after jolt smashed him into the ground and tossed him around like a rag doll…..

Taeg's corpse began to glow as it levitated in the air. Massive power rolled off of it, but the lightning was not blue, it was a dark, malevolent purple. Unlike the others, Clywd and Dactal did not animate; they lay on the ground with no visible healing of their wounds. The quickening power from Taeg blasted the heavens as it added its own symphony of destruction to what already had occurred…..

The two watchers were in shock. Though they both had seen quickenings, the level of violence of what they were seeing happening was astounding. While one did their best to keep their camera centered upon the spectacle, the other one was madly cheering them on. "Keep recording, God Damnit! Don't stop for anything!"

"That's easy enough for you to say. You better hope we don't get ourselves killed out here!" The watcher filming the conflagration did their best not to dwell upon that distinctive possibility.

...he awoke in a rather odd position. When he attempted to rise, his head knocked painfully against stone. He rubbed his head with a curse. It was a time consuming effort, but at last he was out from where he had lain half buried. It was a sunny day in Temair. A cool breeze capered around the menhirs and tousled his hair. He rose to his feet and brushed his hair from his face. He grabbed a hank of it and stared at it. I don't remember my hair being this long, he thought. Without even thinking about it, he reached down to where his feet were covered by well-made sandals. Woven in between the sandal ties were some extra pieces of thong; one of these was sufficient to tie back his hair in a ponytail. He looked around the general area where he was, but saw nothing out of place. The Lia Fail stood there in Spartan majesty. Two chairs were in front of it. Though they were of plain wood, their craftsmanship was superb. He inspected the chairs for a moment. He ran his left hand across one of the chairs. He looked in shock at his left arm; it was covered in some sort of metal! It was only a covering though; he could see his arm beneath. Next. he reached around to find out what was weighing upon his back. He drew a wicked looking black sword of sizeable length and inspected it with wonder. This was his as well? He touched the edge with his right hand and quickly drew it back. The sword was sharp as well! He shook his head after a minute and sheathed the sword. Now how did I remember to do that, he wondered. He shrugged and then began to walk away from the menhir's that had partially entrapped him. This was all confusing to him; he knew where he was, but he did not know who he was yet. One of those chairs belongs to me, he thought to himself. It was a random thought, as fleeting as an errant breeze. As he walked around though, he noticed some disconcerting things. A lot of the ground was uprooted, as if some great beast had vented its anger upon the turf. Menhirs he remembered as whole where cracked or scorched or split asunder. He could smell the burnt stone in the air. He came around to the front of a mound he was loosely following and found a small entrance to the mound. Something glittered for a moment in the sunlight. He stalked up to the entrance and reached down. The first thing he picked up was a metal cord with a amulet on it. It consisted of two metal sticks, one longer and pointing up and down and one shorter stick placed across the long stick. He dropped it and then picked up the second item. It was some sort of robe that was an earthy brown color; something a druid might wear. As he turned it around to look at it, several things fell out of some sort of hole in the robe. Various pieces of colorful paper with strange marks on them. A small something that had the rigidity of metal but could be bent easily. When you ceased bending it, it immediately became straight again. He dropped the strange item and almost lunged for the last item there. It was a heavy half circlet made of metal. On its center a single rune had been engraved. This is mine, a voice inside his head affirmed. Almost without thinking, he placed the half circlet upon his head. He felt a tingling sensation as he watched a trail of bluish lightning arc from the circlet to the sword on his back. He looked down at himself. Except for some leather holding the sword scabbard in place, he was bare from the waist up. Some sort of cloth wrapped his hips and went down to just above his knee. Well tooled sandals with a lot of wrappings adorned his feet. As he stepped away from the strange items, he seemed to be more sure of himself and assertive. He no longer looked around in puzzlement; his glances now were calculating, scanning, and remembering…The look of puzzlement was now replaced with one of grim purpose. He heard noises a short distance off; they were coming from the top of the mound. He did not remember there being a mound here. The Lia Fail was no longer there where he first saw it, either. All that there was there was a flattened space. It seemed that part of a cairn was visible as well, but he thought it was a trick his eyes were playing upon him. He shook his head at these strange sights as he stalked up towards the top of the mound to investigate the noises he had heard.

On top of the mound there was not only destruction, but carnage. He smiled at the carnage; Badb and Morvran had been obeyed. The noises were coming from more than one place. First he saw a creature of shiny metal that was missing its head. He absently kicked at the metal. Next he saw a male corpse also without a head. This one would have towered over me if they were standing, he thought. He then found what looked like a square of metal. It was some sort of shield. One sword he found looked well-made but way too light; the other he found was of very crude workmanship. Suddenly, something grabbed his ankle. He jerked free of the grip by reflex and spun around. Here was one who was still alive! He approached them until he stood over them. The wounded person raised an arm towards him and was trying to say something. I don't understand you! Speak again. "Ardis, will you not help one who has helped you? Will you not help one of the Daoine Na Sidhe?" "Ardis looked down at the wounded Daoine. One of their eyes was gone, leaving only one violet orb to stare at him. Their left arm and chest were red ruins. Both wet and dried blood was caked on their face. Raising their arm took most of their strength; it once again fell to the ground as the Daoine breathed in ragged gasps. There were two other bodies nearby. It looked like some small, furry creature, but it lacked a head as well. The other body lay still, but it seemed whole. Ardis had to use his hands to roll this one over. One look at the face told him volumes. He glared at the wounded Daoine. "

Since when do you bring Picts into Temair?"

The wounded Daoine spoke with some effort. "We came to kill the bog beast. Do you not remember it as it assailed you before?"

"I know of what you speak, but the last time I killed one of those, it was long ago, before I even became part of a clan."

"You have to help me! Daoine law would say nothing less!" A

rdis pondered for one moment. "What law says that? The only laws you have are those which you can change at your own whim. Failing that, you seek to twist their meaning so as you can assail humans with the same. Tell me, why was it that you prevented Sardicus from touching the Lia Fail? Answer me this question and I might help you."

Clywd was silent upon being asked. His demeanor took on an excoriating cast as he spoke again. "Not all of what the Daoine know is for humans to hear and learn."

"I remember now; the Daoine never cared because they could not care. Why is it you remembered what Taeg did to your child?"

Once more, Clywd was silent.

"That was why you never left, Clywd; you were not allowed to leave. You somehow remembered beyond the immediate future."

Clywd began to be as strident as possible. "Humans care, so you have to help me and Dactal"

Ardis only thought for a moment before he shook his head. "Humans care, but we also learn from our mistakes until finally, we can make the right choice. You and yours never cared about humans. You decided that you were better than us, that we were more like some disease that would be tolerated rather than be accepted as your equals."

Clywd hissed, "We WERE stronger and better than humans; all humans could do was breed like the vermin they are!"

Ardis' expression was pitying and grim at the same time. "I will help you Clywd: I will do so in the way you would have helped me or mine." It was a simple matter to draw his sword and cut Clywd's head from his shoulders. Ardis felt no pity or remorse. If they could or would not suffer humans to live, then he would not suffer them to live either. He hacked off the Pict's head for good measure, though she did not move. It suddenly felt as if a choice had been made. Clywd's and the Pict's bodies quickly turned to little more than dried pieces of bone. Two quickenings occurred, but most of the power of from them fled away on a breeze; what little was left flowed into Ardis' left arm. Clywd and Dactal should have died a long time ago but for the purpose they had to serve. He felt a rumble course through the mound followed by a loud cracking sound. The rumbling only faded off gradually, leaving him a little shaken. He shrugged off the feeling as he went to investigate the other noises he had heard, sword in hand….

"Amanda! Are you alive?" Duncan lacked the strength to get up. "Amanda!"

"I am here, Duncan, though I feel like shit."

Duncan laughed. "That's about how I feel. Where are you?"

"I am behind you. One second." Duncan heard scrabbling and a muttered curse. Amanda flopped down beside Duncan. He had garnered enough strength to push himself up on an elbow, but that was it. Amanda's cat suit was in tatters and her face was streaked with grime and dried blood, but she was otherwise okay. Duncan had taken a lot more damage than she had. "

Can you get up, Duncan?"

"I don't think so; my wound has healed to an extent, but I can't walk yet."

They both turned to address the sound of feet approaching. Amanda got to her feet with some effort and turned to face the sound. Someone was walking towards them with specific intent. Amanda gasped. "Duncan, you have to take a look at this!" Duncan managed to turn to face the noise. The person approaching them was dressed in a very odd fashion. High laced but sturdy sandals graced their feet while what looked like a kilt of some sort was around their waist. Except for leather to hold a scabbard upon their back and a metal covered left arm, they were naked from the waist up. Their long hair was tied back by a leather thong, but the half circlet on their head also held back their hair. They could see the hilt of a massive sword protruding from the scabbard, a sword both of them knew too well. The person was unmindful of Amanda standing with her sword ready for combat. They stopped when they were next to both of them. "

Who are you and what are you doing here at Temair?"

Duncan thought for a moment and answered as he always did under combat conditions. "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

The person stepped back and reached for their sword. "Mr Cuwd? That is a Pict clan designation. I will not suffer them here!"

Duncan laughed a little, though it hurt. "I am not a Pict. Don't you recognize me Brother Timothy?"

The person halted for a moment. "What is that? I have never heard a name like that before, and you assuredly aren't my brother."

Duncan looked at Amanda with a look of incredulity upon his features. What the hell, he thought. He WAS looking at Brother Timothy, if you radically shortened the hair and disregarded the different clothing he wore. "Who are you?" Duncan asked.

"I did not give you permission to ask me questions; you are the interloper!"

Duncan snorted. "Whatever you say, Ardis."

"YOU will address me by my formal name! If not, I will have my guards teach you a lesson. I am ArdisAnon, Caeltom Könige!"

"The King of kings?" Amanda said.

"Yes, I am. The Lia Fail sounded its acceptance of me over all others." Ardis looked away from them, scanning the area. "Where are my guards anyways? And where is the Lia Fail?"

"The Lia Fail was moved, ArdisAnon. We told you that before."

"But I gave no such order for it to be moved. How can this be?"

Amanda replied again. "I don't know how it happened, but where we are now is not the present."

"That might explain some of the peculiarities here, but it still does not answer my question. Where is my retinue?"

Duncan stopped smirking, if only for the reason that he sort of empathized with Ardis' confusion. He had been there before as well. "I think they are all long dead, except for that elf and that Pict who came here. Where are they?"

"They killed a bog beast, but even wounded as he was, he still excoriated me. He showed me that the Daoine never cared, so I put him and that Pict out of their misery."

Amanda was in shock. "You killed them?"

"They were already dead before I killed them. They had almost no power in them."

They all heard noises coming from the bottom of the other side of the mound. Ardis was the only one with any energy, so he walked away to take a look. There was a Cairn where the Lia Fail once stood, but the cairn had been cracked open somehow. A figure was emerging from the cairn. He more fell out then climbed out. What was odd was that they had been pierced and transpierced over almost all their body. The figure screamed as they pulled out the arrows and spears. Finally, all of them were removed and the figure got up on their feet. Ardis beheld a male in their prime of physical shape. Their hair was a fiery red but streaked with gray. They were dressed much like him except they had a beard. They carried a sword on their hip. They also looked confused upon arising, but he saw their steps steady and pick up speed. He walked back to where the two strangers were.

"Someone has crawled out of a cairn; they have red hair and a beard." Ardis sat down to think about that for a moment. "I also wonder where my queen is. She was always here with me."

Despite a warning look form Duncan, Amanda spoke again. "She was killed by members of another clan. You called them Clan Ap Hwywd."

Ardis jerked erect at that name. "That is a most serious charge to be brought of interlopers to Temair! You best keep a silent counsel unless you court trouble." Ardis got up and looked around yet again. He could see the strange man coming up the hill towards them. For some reason, Ardis felt ill at ease regarding this fourth person. Not even the interlopers gave him that feeling. The interlopers were both wary of him, but he felt that they could be trusted. This stranger that approached them gave him a feeling of unease and…..anger? Why would he be angry at a stranger? He should at least ask them their business. He greeted the stranger.

"Welcome to Temair! From what clan do you hail?"

The stranger ignored him as they called out names. "Colluill. Gwynach, Dougal, where are you!"

Before Duncan could stop, he spoke. "I know Dougal is dead. So is Dhurgal."

The stranger fixed a baleful eye upon Duncan. His eyes were a near luminous green, almost like jade. "You killed my nephews! You are going to pay for that!" The stranger lunged at Duncan…..


	41. Chapter 40

…only to be blocked by Ardis. "I think not," Ardis said. "From what clan do you hail? You will answer me."

The stranger continued calling out names. "Bronwyn! Clydweth! Your uncle needs you now!"

Ardis stared into space for a moment. A thought broke through into his consciousness: **Sardicus Ap Hwywd is a half elf bastard. He is an insult to the one true race.** With this information, he began to get irritated at this stranger. "You are Sardicus Ap Hwywd of Clan Hwywd."

Sardicus looked at Ardis. "You wear the crown that should have been mine!"

"The Sidhe would never let a bastard like you rule the clans. That was why they would not let you willingly approach the stone. The Daoine Na Sidhe were far more intolerant then humans. That is why you had no qualms of violating this sacred place. You wanted revenge." Ardis laughed. "How did you get stuck in a cairn, Sardicus?" Ardis had sheathed his sword, but he knew he could draw it quickly enough if needed.

"I demanded my right after you fled. They cut me down and pierced me asunder with their weapons and put me in the cairn! You were the cause of that!"

"No, you brought it upon yourself. I was wondering why you never showed yourself later on."

Sardicus leered at Ardis. "How fares your queen? She was violated by two of us before Dougal cut off her head."

Once more, information was heard by Ardis and processed. His irritation began to form into something else…..a murderous rage was bubbling to the surface of his consciousness. Ardis replied in a slow but deadly sounding pace. "And he, greaved so, did cut a path of destruction through the clan house of the defilers." Ardis began to laugh again, but his laugh wasn't friendly; it was the cold winter wind, the dry cold that cuts to the bone. Amanda stared at him in horror as she mouthed the words he had just said. "They are all dead, Sardicus. Every one of your clan. Even Taeg is dead; for suffering that abomination alone, you should have been punished. But you did not stop there. You started eating children and others that you found and killed. And then you had the gall to deny the charges; but you never would have proved your innocence. I killed Gwynach and Colluill after I dismembered them, but not before they died. You are the last of your defiling clan!" Bluish quickening fire crackled around Ardis and dissipated. The same began to happen to Sardicus. They had not even touched blades yet, but the lightning crackled all around them. Sardicus seemed to drip lightning from his form….

"Amanda, can you help me up?"

"Duncan, we might be needed here!"

"No Amanda, we need to get as far from here as possible. Do you really want to be around when Ardis remembers everything? It is getting very close to that time, and time for us to get the hell away. There will be no peace here, not while they can lift their swords." Amanda helped Duncan up, though he managed to assist her. They managed to move a short distance away from Ardis and Sardicus, Their timing could not have been better…..

"You destroyed our Clan!"

"You defiled this place of kings by refusing to live under laws that bound both of our clans! For your crime of cannibalism, banishment…..for the death of the Queen…death…King's Justice is a most onerous thing, but it will be carried out. If you want my crown, you defiling miscreant, see if you can take it from me! I will add your bloody corpse to the dead at your clan house and nail your head to my tent pole!" Yes, it was white hot rage he felt, but he kept it under control. This was not Colluill or one of the others. Sardicus might have more power then he did and could well be older.

"ARVACH! Daudi an Ap Anon!" Sardicus drew his sword, hoping to close the gap and make a quick end of Ardis, but he underestimated Ardis' fighting skill. Ardis blocked with his armored left arm and kicked Sardicus hard enough to slow him down. He then skipped back a step and drew that which he forged so long ago. "

ARVACH! Daudi an Ap Hwywd!"

Sardicus' blade was also of a dark metal. It proved to be Ardis' swords equal in many ways. It did not shatter under a direct blow for one. Both men were roughly the same size and both heavily muscled. Ardis' sword had the longer reach by far, but Sardicus was slightly faster. Only Ardis' sword had that deadly whistling sound attached to it though, since it was far more massive. Amanda had half dragged Duncan a ways away, but her strength was spent as well. They could do little but watch the cataclysmic battle erupt in front of them. Where two normal swordsmen might trade a few blows per minute, these two made it sound like a continuous barrage of metal hitting metal. Ardis and Sardicus were moving at a speed no mortal or immortal could hope to match as they battled across the verdant sward. They paid Duncan or Amanda no mind. They even disregarded the corpses on the ground. Ardis had his sword knocked out of his hand, but that didn't slow then up in any real way, Ardis' armored left arm was enough to parry any blows from his enemy. Both combatants had wounds upon them now that were not healing as they normally would. While Sardicus had several cuts in his chest, Ardis had a scalp wound on his right side and a cut on his right arm. With his left hand extended though, Ardis had yet another cutting implement. He cut Sardicus in the chest once then again with the device. Sardicus made yet another attempt to close with his enemy, but he learned that he was outmatched in that regard. Millennia of carrying such a massive sword gave Ardis extra muscle to allow him to wield it. Ardis responded to a head butt with a punch so hard it actually drove Sardicus away from him, cracking a rib in the process. He found his sword nearby and retrieved it with unholy speed; he was fast enough in doing so to parry a heavy strike from Sardicus. Both combatants seem to bleed quickening fire off of their selves as their battle raged back and forth upon Temair. Despite their exertions, neither combatant looked tired; they each trilled another battle cry and once again assailed each other.

Any advantage that one of them would gain was only momentary. Both fighters were simply that good; one with more power, the other with much more carnage to their credit. Sardicus kicked Ardis off the top of the hostage mound and quickly pursued him. It made no difference; Ardis quickly neutralized his foes advantage. Sardicus punched with his fist; it was met by the flat of Ardis' sword. Ardis tried to break Sardicus' sword; Sardicus simply backed off from their attack…..and so it raged….

The two watchers were still filming what they could see, which at the moment was not much. The blasts of lightning had ceased from the area, but they noticed the black clouds in the same specific area. They had made an attempt to get closer, but they were beaten back by storm driven gusts of wind and sheeting rain.

Just outside of Tara Hill, a sizeable group of druids was gathered. Not only were they there to console and strengthen each other, but they had seen the lightning even at their distance from where a battle was occurring. Several had stated that the ill feeling they had felt had increased; due to this fact, none were willing to brave entering Tara Hill

…Duncan was somewhat in awe at Sardicus and Ardis and the way they battled. He had no idea how much time had passed, but the two locked in combat seemed to have lost none of their energy. Both combatants had new wounds to nurse; both were covered in their own blood, but still they battled on. Their battle had spilled off of the mound and was headed towards the flat area with the broken cairn. Duncan blinked. There were the two chairs he had seen in his dream, but he was almost positive they were not there before…he was realizing that this place was not real, it simply couldn't be real. This must have been what this place looked like a long time ago, he thought. All he could do is stay there and watch; he still did not have enough strength to walk away on his own, and Amanda wasn't much better off….He suddenly noticed singing; it was coming from the two that battled…it was a song of praise to Badb and Morvran, promising great slaughter and havoc in exchange for the might and means to wield and deliver it….maybe it was uplifting to the two of them, but to him, it gave him feelings of revulsion and abhorrence…..Amanda seemed to feel the same way….

As they battled on, Sardicus erupted into song in the Eldritch tongue. Ardis answered with a counterpoint to the tune. They now battled around the chairs that he and his queen once occupied. He only barely blocked a blow from Sardicus as they chased each other around and over the chairs. Even though he could not see them, Ardis felt them. The Daoine Na Sidhe were watching this battle somehow. Despite what the Daoine had cost him and despite their ill treatment of him, he still battled on. He felt that he really had no choice in the matter; what sentence was declared was what sentence that had to be carried out. What would happen afterwards? He didn't know. As he parried another blow from Sardicus, his feet slipped slightly upon some small stones on the ground. It caused him to lose his balance for a moment, but that was enough. Sardicus stabbed his sword forward and got underneath Ardis' guard due to the accident. The sword transpierced Ardis from his left side to his right. Ardis suddenly went numb as he began to cough blood. He could not help himself as he staggered into and then fell into his chair. Sardicus laughed a unforgiving laugh as he rammed his sword into Ardis up to the hilt.

"I win! You may have slaughtered all of my clan, but we will eventually rise again stronger then before!" Sardicus pulled out his sword and held it high in the air as Ardis screamed in pain. Sardicus pointed his bloody sword at the place where the Lia Fail was and screamed out, "You denied me what was my right! I will now take what is mine and you will be witness to it!" Sardicus only gave Duncan and Amanda a passing glance as he stalked up to Ardis and ripped the circlet from his head. Sardicus then emplaced the circlet upon his head. He then raised his sword for the killing stroke…

..It was a mortal wound; Ardis knew that. Despite his battle prowess, he still could not defeat his foe. While part of him was simply tired and wanted to rest, another part of him remembered all of those that had died by the hand of an Ap Hwywd. Despite the blackness rapidly closing in, he thought of all the people the clan of Ap Hwywd had killed, from his queen, to all of the others. He also thought of the ones he had killed; there were so many he could not count them all. With Sardicus holding the crown, many more would die at a later time. All Sardicus would have to do is breed some more immortals. Humanity would suffer because of it. Would they suffer any less under him? He had not belayed his murdering hand enough himself, did he have the right to castigate and excoriate Clan Hwywd for doing the same? He coughed even more blood as his mortal wound worked its degradation and destruction. His vision began to blur at his periphery. There was some part of him that wanted to give up, to rest, but if that was his goal, why had he fought so hard to get here? He could have just offered them his head, but he didn't. Why had he not done so? Well, why did he accept his status as King of Kings? He could answer that one easily enough; he had hoped he could make things even better for his people. That was truly what he thought. The thought of an Ap Hwywd in his place revolted him; it made him angry…why should they have that privilege? He could do better then anyone of Clan Hwywd….he had…but their perfidy and violation of clan law ruined everything for him but more so for his people. After he had been banished, there had been no more concrete unity; kinglets instead of kings. If you feel that way, a voice inside him said, then it falls to you to wipe the scourge that is called Ap Hwywd from the face of this earth so they can defile no more…..yes, that felt right…..but his strength was failing…it is not gone yet…

"Duncan, Sardicus has wounded Ardis and has put that circlet upon his own head!"

Duncan fought his weakened state to stand erect, but still was not able to do so. "If Sardicus wins, there will be hell to pay. We have to do something!"

"Duncan, how will you be able to fight in the state you are? We have to flee from here or we are next!"

"Maybe not." Duncan could see well enough to know Ardis was grievously injured, but it looked to him like Ardis had tightened his grip upon his sword…..

Sardicus swung his sword at Ardis' neck for a killing blow. "After you are dead, I will rule FOREVER!" Sardicus' sword swept down…..

…..Ardis' left arm came up in a fist, not only blocking the sword blow, but catching it in the sword breaking valleys on the outside of the armor, trapping the sword so it could not move. Sardicus tried to remove his sword, but Ardis had completely bound the sword against his arm. Sardicus' last view of his earthly existence was a pair of brown eyes that burned with fury and an icy voice from the far reaches of Hel. "Ye ArdisAnon, Caeltom Könige. I rule the Celtic clans. King's Justice has been served." Ardis lifted his sword with the last of his strength. Even though he only grasped it by one hand, the swords mass did the rest. It cleaved through Sardicus' neck in a clean swipe. Even after Sardicus' head stopped rolling upon the ground, it was several more moments before his body got the message that it was dead. Ardis' sword dropped from his grip to softly impact the ground. He attempted to sit up in his chair, but a last gout of blood exploded from his mouth and ArdisAnon slumped over in his chair, dead….

…it had been a sunny day in Temair, but the sun shone no longer. Ugly black clouds gathered over where they lay…..a wind rapidly picked up in force….

Duncan was surprised; he had surely thought Ardis would lose, but it was Sardicus' head that rolled on the grass. As if he had been denied something before, he began to heal rapidly. He quickly got to his feet and walked over to where Ardis lay. Amanda followed him without a word. Duncan was perplexed; Ardis was for all intents and purposes dead. He saw Sardicus' corpse on the grass as well, but saw no quickening energy leach from the neck.

"Amanda, why is Ardis dead? He shouldn't be."

Amanda shrugged. "It was greaved, not grieved."

"What?"

"That thing I sent Gwyneth, it was an ancient piece of text that was recovered; 'grieved should have been 'greaved'."

"Oh," Duncan said. He saw Sardicus' head on the grass; the circlet was still upon his head. For no reason Duncan could think of, he managed to get the circlet off of the severed head. He then placed it upon Ardis' corpse. He laid Ardis' sword against Ardis as well. That just felt right to him. They both belonged to Ardis. Only a true fool would say otherwise. Only seconds after he placed the sword, he heard a loud rumbling. He then saw that the area in which they were in was getting brighter and brighter despite the storm clouds above. He knew what it was, but he glanced at Sardicus' corpse anyways. The neck of the corpse was a radiant blue sun that just sat there. The breeze had turned into a wind hammer, each blast of it cut into Duncan and Amanda like a sword. They were driven away from Ardis' corpse. It was also as if they were being pushed out of the area. "Amanda, we need to leave here; what happens next does not concern us." Amanda simply nodded. She wanted to leave here now as well. They walked away as quickly as they could; the wind's force pushed them as well. They had no idea when they crossed the boundary that had been set before, but they knew when they did, because….


	42. Chapter 41

…..It was rainy on this late afternoon at Tara Hill. Duncan and Amanda were quickly soaked through, but they did not mind. They had made it back from wherever they had been, and that was reason enough to be glad. They managed to find refuge in a covered area meant for the tourists. The wind still blew, but they were dry. The whole structure shook as they witnessed a large lightning storm from the area where they had left. It was mostly blue in color. They looked at each other for a moment, and then hugged each other for both warmth and security. They watched the storm in awe…..

Ardis approached the council that was there at Temair. He did so with a grim expression, but inside he felt a release of a lot of his anger. He carried something in his right hand. The council acknowledged him and wordlessly made way for him to approach his chair. He seated himself as he looked out amongst the subjects that were gathered. One elf came forward. She was _Ker'arollen_.

"You were banished from this place until such time you rectified what you in part allowed to happen." Ardis just stared at her not saying a word. She spoke yet again. "What have you to say now upon your return to here?"

Ardis still did not say a word. Instead, he unwrapped the bundle he held in his hand. Sardicus' head rolled upon the ground. "King's Justice has been served. They are all dead." Ardis looked at _Ker'arollen to see if she would react to the grisly trophy he had presented, but she did no such thing. He then saw others near his chair. The woman who had demanded King's Justice. Her husband and child, but both hale and healthy. He even saw another woman as she came up to him and sat besides him. She kissed him. It was Blaenwys. She smiled at him; it was both a smile of longing and one of sadness. It was then he noticed parts of the scenery fading away. The first to go away were all the elves. Then his queen faded away into nothingness right before his eyes. What is going on, he thought. Soon he was alone, but not for long. Ker'arollen appeared, looking as pretty as she had then. "You completed the task that became yours by right of the laws we once had, but it has been too long Ardis; We are no more and will never be again….. Ker'arollen faded to dust. He screamed a long scream as the last Daoine faded away. The sunny day became one of rain….. _

_He lay upon the ground in a massive amount of pain from all over. It shortly started to abate, but the worst was yet to come. He looked over to see a headless corpse floating slightly off of the ground, but its neck contained a blue sun. The sun smashed into him with a force he had never felt. The area around him was savaged by the quickening….he had no control as he screamed out his agony….._

The two watchers had watched the two figures stagger out of the area, but they only paid them a passing glance. They snapped some telephoto shots of them and then went back to filming the area they had watched since this whole thing started. They were rewarded with another monstrous display of blue quickening fire as it danced amongst the mound area, spreading more ruination to the menhirs and the ground. It finally abated. The two discussed moving in for a closer look, but decided it would not be a good idea to be around when people came to look there. There had been a lot of damage done, and the two watchers were not going to take the blame. Shortly thereafter, the area was silent.

He lay in the dirt and mud and grass where he was. He had awakened when he choked on a mouthful of rain and dirt. He was chilled to the bone and somewhat disoriented. When he initially tried to rise, a jolt of pain from his right and left sides made him gasp. He looked down, but it was in the evening and he was not able to see that much. By degrees, he managed to get to his feet. What in hell am I doing here in only my underclothes, he thought. As Brother Timothy thought upon the matter, his thoughts became clearer. He found his sword laying close by and sheathed it. _The Mound of the Hostages! _ He found his robe there as well as his cross and a few other things that had been scattered upon the ground. Even though the robe was wet from the rain, its wool content quickly warmed him. _What was I doing here?_ There was a moment of confusion, then it all cam crashing in upon him with such a fury it made him stagger. With a supreme effort, he calmed himself. He walked around in the general area looking for something; all he found were bones scattered about, including some skulls. He stubbed his foot upon something metal; he picked it up. It was a sword as black in color as his own, but this one had seen the effects of age. Even so, it looked like it would do for a display item. He sighed once more and smiled. This time it was not a malevolent or deadly smile; it was a true smile of someone who had a load lifted from their shoulders. As he left, he began to sing an old song he knew, but he didn't have the heart to continue it. It was as if a great something sloughed off of his shoulders and was left in this place. There was no reason to glorify slaughter and carnage, not anymore…


	43. Epilogue

**Paris, France**

Duncan sat out on his patio nursing a cup of coffee. It had been three days since he and Amanda had returned from Tara Hill; it was only today he felt anywhere near normal. He had slept a lot in the intervening time as had Amanda, but it had done them both good. Amanda joined him outside and sat down beside Duncan. For a moment or two, the two of them sat silent, concentrating upon their cups of coffee, but then as one they became more animated as they looked at each other. "How are you this morning, Amanda?" "Fine, Duncan, you?" "I am fine; I actually feel close to normal today." The niceties were over, they both knew that. "Do you think that monk survived, Duncan?" "I can't see why he wouldn't have, though that place was rather strange. We couldn't see anyone else but our adversaries while we battled in the same place." "Where do you think Gwyneth is?" "Amanda, she is probably dead. The monk was pretty final regarding some things." Duncan laughed. "Or Ardis or whatever name he uses." Amanda sighed and was momentarily silent. She picked up the paper. "They say she is still missing in the report here." "Well, it wouldn't be the first time a missing someone turned up dead, wouldn't it?" "I suppose not." Amanda spoke yet again. "What are we going to do regarding the information we have? You know, about Ap Hwywd's and their fertility?" Duncan looked at her. "Think about what would happen if watchers had that information. Do you think they can be trusted not to act in a murderous fashion?" Amanda's expression grew hard for a moment. "No, they are watchers after all. They slaughtered a lot of immortals these past weeks; even if the immortals they did kill deserved it, it could still set a bad trend. Do we also keep the revelation regarding the rules to ourselves too?" Duncan sighed this time. "I don't see how we have any choice. If that were to be revealed, the trouble it would cause would be as worse as watchers knowing some immortals can breed." "But all of the Ap Hwywd's are dead, Duncan. We can't have children!" "I said that Gwyneth is probably dead; I don't know for sure. Only that monk does, and I don't see him being very talkative about the matter."

Duncan and Amanda actually did go out the day after they arrived back from Tara Hill. Paris was vibrant as it always was, despite the articles running in the local paper. According to unnamed sources, a group of terrorists thought that they could spread fear throughout the land by masquerading as a monk and causing so much of the slaughter that happened. Duncan shook his head. _I wonder how he pulled that off,_ he thought. He dismissed the train of thought as quickly as he had seized upon it; he was shut of that destructive person for good. No more voices assailed him; his mind was clear. He was looking at some ostentatiously dressed young female. _She is worried about being late for an appointment. _Duncan shook his head. _How in hell did he know that?_ It seemed that every time he did more then just glance at people, he would hear some unbidden thought or such in is head. He looked at Amanda with a questioning look in his eye. _Yeah, me too._ They looked at each other with consternation. Duncan concentrated on the thoughts within his head. It was no longer as vivid and vibrant as it was before, but the memories were there for perusal anytime he wished. He sighed and looked out around the crowds of people on the street. A moment later, he knew that there were two other immortals around here. He could _tell_ that they were here, but as far as he knew, they had no idea he was here. _That could come in handy at some time._ It was a hard choice to keep what they knew a secret, but if the information ever got out that all immortals were living a lie forged by blackmail, there would assuredly be hell to pay. Duncan saw some street toughs beating on each other in an alley. Though he shook his head at their idiocy, there was a part of him that seemed to take delight in the violence. There was a bitter metallic taste in the back of his mouth as he dwelled upon that unwelcome occurrence. Havoc and ruin, destruction and perfidy. Despite what Duncan and Amanda had gained, what they had came at a very heavy price…..something over which they would ponder for years or centuries to come. _You knew, you bastard; you knew what would happen despite you saying you knew not._ Far back in his mind, Duncan could hear a laugh, a laugh bereft of any humor, a laugh that was like the icicles shattering under the force of the wind….it resonated inside his head long after he stopped listening to it….

It was in the evening of the same day that Duncan awoke to find Amanda near him. She shivered a bit, so he put his arms around her. It turned out she was not asleep. Duncan wound up not getting that much sleep either, at least right away…

Dawson arose at dawn; at times he didn't sleep that well. Shaking his head, he moved towards the kitchen for a cup of coffee. A few draughts of the brew made him feel more human. He opened his laptop computer. Things were going very well regarding the Watcher cells. All of the major ones were back at green status. His cell phone chimed. "This is Dawson." "I hoped it would be." "Duncan! How is everything?" "As well as could be expected. Things seemed to have calmed down." Dawson took another drink of his coffee. "What happened over at Tara Hill, Duncan?" There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Dawson, a matter was settled, that was all." "You expect me to believe that is all that happened? What about that monk? If he is back at his Monastery, we can have him watched as well." Duncan's reply was as cold sounding as could be. "I don't' advise that, Dawson. It is in both our interests to leave him the hell alone." "Duncan, I have a job to do and you know it!" "I also know you tricked Amanda and have done some other things of which I don't approve. If you antagonize that immortal, I will not be responsible for what happens…" The line went dead. Dawson stared at his cell phone for the longest moment….._Son of a bitch!_

**Tara Hill Vandalized; Authorities aghast at damage!**

(Irish Free Press)

**Meath County, Ireland - **A most horrifying and shocking scene awaited those who ventured into Tara Hill after the storm last night. Menhirs that had stood in their spots for millennia were broken, uprooted or in some cases scorched by vandals as yet unknown.

"It is a bloody mess!" A spokesman for the firm that maintains the site. "Many menhirs were pulverized or knocked over. Some others look chipped as if someone was hacking on them with stone cutting tools." He pointed to the worst of the wreckage. "The Lia Fail used to stand upon that spot. No one ever knew there was a cairn underneath it. Some one broke into the cairn; as you can see, there are pieces of bones scattered over the general area." The spokesman shrugged. "We found some Euro notes inside The Mound of the Hostages. It also looks like someone dug up a lot of the ground perhaps looking for something, but it does not explain why some of the ground looks scorched!" Sources close to the Tara Hill supervisors say that carbon dating will be performed not only on the bone fragments, but also upon the newly found cairn. "It will take weeks to clean up the mess that is here. We will find the vandals who did this and they will feel the full extent of the law!"

In a related story, Sean Llewellyn, a practicing druid in the area, seems more happy and upbeat today. "The taint we felt at Tara Hill is gone! It is as if it has been born anew!" He and others talked of a rite to be performed as soon as the damage to Tara Hill could be repaired. "It will be in celebration of the cleansing of the site!" However, when asked about a group of suspicious characters who were seen entering Tara Hill, he gave a brisk no comment and fled the lens of the camera.

**Group of five sought in Tara Hill Vandalism**

**(Irish Free Press)****- **Authorities are seeking at least five individuals who may have had something to do with the vandalism of one of Ireland's most sacred sites of antiquity.

Tara Hill, or Temair, is considered to be the Irish seat of kings. It was said that the Lia Fail would sound its approval of a candidate seeking kingship. Some of the ruins and menhirs at the site are over 2500 years old. The damage to Tara Hill is extensive, but most of it is concentrated where The Mound of The Hostages sits. The mound originally faced the Lia Fail before the Lia Fail was moved to mark a grave of over 400 who died in an attempt to make Ireland independent.

"It will take weeks to not only clean up the damage, but to conduct tests on a number of bones found at the site and a broken open cairn that may have held them. When we find this group of people, they will be answering some very hard questions." The source quoted chose to remain anonymous. An interview with the park constabulary regarding this incident was refused. All that was issued was the following statement. "The park constabularies have always performed their duty with extreme professionalism. However, changing times and the need for more security to prevent further vandalism necessitate the changes we will implement. The park constabularies will be replaced with regular constabulary and a stronger barricade will be erected to secure this site for generations to come."

Several stories erupted about this time; almost all were eventually consigned to those who saw conspiracy in everything they faced. One of the more persistent ones was of a figure cowled in a monk's robe that carried an archaic but deadly sword. They made the Lia Fail boom three times before disappearing into the mists. Others added to the story, saying they heard the clash of swords by the old Lia Fail site…..

**The Convent of Mary Most Blessed**

It took Gwyneth some getting used to, but by degrees, she learned to adapt to her surroundings. Her initial shock at meeting yet another immortal within these gates was quickly dissipated. At this moment, she was showering off from her rather brutal practice session with Sister Agnetha. As she got into the pace of things here, she figured she could deal with staying here. Though the sisters here were penitent before God, that service did not stop them from pursuing various activities on their own. Some even had advanced degrees, and not just in divinity. Needless to say, Agnetha was the one that most interested her. Soon enough, she and Agnetha had time to talk to one another. "How long have you been here, Agnetha?" Agnetha paused for a moment as if thinking. "Almost 1000 years. Thankfully Brother Timothy found me." Gwyneth was shocked. "You do not look a day older then thirty." "That is one of the benefits of being immortal. There are drawbacks as well, though." She continued. "I saw Brother Timothy kill those invaders, and he laughed as they died. I always had trouble equating that behavior with one penitent to God." Agnetha, he was not always penitent to God; at one time long ago, he obeyed different Gods now long dead and even reviled." Agnetha accepted that as a matter of course, but then her tone grew more serious. "If you ever leave this place, you will need to be able to defend yourself against others of our kind." One thing led to another, and now Gwyneth found herself constantly sparring with Sister Agnetha. She picked up a lot of bruises at first, but since she didn't have to unlearn anything at first, her learning was rather quick. She now could hold her own against Sister Agnetha in their sparring matches. It was not that she could even leave right away; her old life was dead to her. That much she knew. But her old life had no more mysteries to offer either. She had all the answers she needed. In perhaps 75 or 100 years, she would be able to travel from this place with little chance of being recognized. She accepted that as she accepted all the other things that had occurred. _I am the last Ap Hwywd, but I had naught to do with their perfidy._ Because of that, she had been spared. When she thought about what she had done to merit this, she felt no guilt. It was the only thing she could do; whether it would assuage the burning fury in his eyes, she didn't know. Only time would tell, and she had all the time in the world…

About eight weeks later, she awoke feeling like she wanted to vomit. She did vomit; she barely made it to the toilet. She washed up at the sink and suddenly stared into the mirror. Enough of her friends were or had been pregnant for her to know the signs. _Ap Hwywd's breed._ Here green eyes were at once wide with wonder but also with horror…

**Unknown location, Upstate New York**

Jeremy was glad that he had been hired here. He could not wait to get to work. The insane security surrounding his hiring was a bit of a drag, but like most precocious wonders in any field, that was just the protocol. Protocol could be tolerated if the prize was big enough; in this case, it was. A hotshot biogeneticist had made the headlines not so long ago by mapping the human genome. For any undergrad student in this field, getting to work on a project associated with Dr. Greg Winter was worth any amount of protocol. He was under a strict secrecy clause for the time he was at work for this spin off venture, but it was the work that intrigued him. After he had signed the reams of paperwork swearing him to secrecy, he then was put to work. The work itself was rather boring at first; he was given samples of an unknown source and his job was to try and sequence the DNA. It seemed to be a gargantuan task, but with the latest triumphs involving the human genome, it wasn't. Once he had the samples mapped, he was comparing them to the unknown sample and a map of the human genome. It was tedious work, but it sure paid well. One day when he came into work, he was excused from his work station and sent upstairs to talk with none other then the big boss himself. That meeting lasted about five minutes. He was now working with lab mice; it was a sort of a shotgun approach, but detailed records were kept of what specific markers were attached to what specific mouse. As expected, many of the test mice died or went crazy. A very few showed promise; one mouse lived 5 times its normal lifespan before expiring; another test subject had improved physical responses. He sent the results upstairs, which resulted with another meeting with Dr. Winter himself. "You did excellent work on both the mapping and the testing. We think it is about time that you see the source from where the samples came. He was taken into a locked room with various safeguards on the entry. A human corpse floated in a tank of preserving fluid. The corpse was missing its head. He saw the head a little ways away in its own tank. "This was a subject found in NYC. They look human in all respects, but their DNA is slightly different. It is that DNA you have been sampling and mapping." Jeremy was only a little creeped out, but once again, the money he was being paid plus the work he got to do eased away any adverse feelings. It wasn't like this company killed this dude, was it? "What are you going to with the research, Doctor Winter?" "Here is what I have planned…."

A year later, 'Bene-Vive' hit the market. Though initial sales were slow, they picked up at a steady pace. The IPO was a massive success, making several millionaires overnight. Its ingredients did not seem to be any different from other drinks of its type, but it was a definite success. The same people who had stolen the body from the morgue were betting on no one analyzing the ingredients; many of the ingredients had some extra information added to them in the form of genetic markers…

**Rome, Italy**

The superior leaned back in his chair with a sigh. The cross and writ were back in Rome's possession; a writ of rescindment was all that it cost. His five agents were healing nicely as well. In exchange for remuneration, the five were sworn to silence about the matter that had gotten them injured. The superior made a note to himself: Anything like this occurs again, do additional research.

It was late in the evening when the superior decided to go to sleep. He had accomplished quite a lot today, including stripping the Defensor database of anything related to that monk. He knew that he was out of his league when that monk's name showed up. That monk had brought back a number of unpleasant memories. Next to his bed was a bureau and on the bureau was a rather plain looking box. He opened the box and looked over its contents. It was still there. A religious medallion still covered in dried blood. His blood. He had been killed during the revolution in Italy. It came as a great shock to him when once more he became alive. Fortunately he was a rather minor figure back then, so he had no problems with hiding within the confines of mother church. He was sure that if he wanted to, he could have that monk removed, but part of him was not so sure. What would it accomplish? _One who would be so violent assuredly cannot be penitent to God._ He forgave the monk for their excesses. _If becoming immortal happened to me, why not others? You mean, like a monk who wreaks havoc without compunction?_ Yes, exactly like that. It was best to leave such matters alone; instead, concentrate on the ones that can be changed. As he fell asleep that evening, he felt as if part of him was cleansed.

**The Monastery of Saint Timothy**

He awakened just before dawn was about to break. He had no problem doing so; the same routine seven days a week. Tossing aside the thin blanket, he arose and stretched. The mean pallet of straw was still adequately fresh so it would not need to be changed. Brother Timothy chuckled as the last vestiges of the dream withered away as he became more alert. He got up and stretched. As he passed under his pull up bar, he did his usual number: fifty with both arms, twenty each for his left and right arm alone. What did he have to do today? He initially thought of some red haired defilers, but that was done. The same was for the cross and writ. Three days ago he had returned to the Monastery. No one said a word regarding how filthy he was. Dirt and mud and other things stained his robe and his countenance was stained with the same. He had showered himself off and went to sleep, but not before stuffing himself with food. He slept almost a whole day before he felt like rising. He had removed the greave and scabbard before doing so; there was no longer any need to wear them anymore. He washed his rather tattered robe and then stored it in his closet towards the back. He then ate some more then slept again, leading up to this day. He had some chores to do today, so as quickly as possible he showered and dressed. He casually looked at himself in the mirror; there was something that was different. Then he noticed it. The black burn mark was gone from below his left shoulder and from his lower back on his right side. _Some sort of forgiveness?_ He put that from his mind at the moment because there were things to do yet. He waited until a little after nine in the morning. Disguising the items as well as he could, he went upstairs to the monsignor's office. He had no problem gaining admittance this time. "Good morning, Monsignor." Leopold looked up from his desk and fixed Brother Timothy with a calculated look. "Good morning, Brother Timothy. I hope you are now well rested?" "Yes, I am, I needed it. I have some things for you here." Without a word, the monsignor unlocked the case behind his desk. Brother Timothy quickly placed the sword and scabbard and greave inside it. He was also silent. The monsignor locked the cabinet, and then spoke again. "What is behind that locked door below the staircase?" Brother Timothy laughed. "So that was you there that evening. It is largely a storage area, but I turned one area into a study of sorts." Brother Timothy paused for a moment. His weapons were only part of the bundle he carried. "If you have some time, perhaps you would like to take a look at what is there."

Brother Timothy opened the second locked door into his study and turned on the lights. The Monsignor's passing interest in the decorations turned to shock as he started inspecting some of the contents inside, from a "Massacre of The Heretics" on a piece of vellum to several massive tomes on a shelf. The monsignor turned to address Brother Timothy, but the monk had pulled one last thing from the bundle he carried. It was a slender sword nearly the same color as the one he until recently had wielded, but the runes inscribed upon it had a greenish color. Brother Timothy put a few nails into the wall, and then hung the sword next to the other weapons. "There. I think that is a good a place as any for that." "Whose sword is that?" "That is a rather long story, Monsignor; one that was only recently concluded. I think your attention would better be served by this." Brother Timothy took one of the massive tomes off of the shelf upon which it rested and set it on a table large enough to hold the book. The monsignor only had to turn a few pages to know what it was. "This is an illuminated Bible! Where on earth did you get this?" "Actually, I scribed most of it. Monsignor Michel did the drawings. You were right about some things. In order to survive, sometimes you have to grow. I guess that this item should go over well with some of those who….fund this place of worship?" The monsignor was at a loss for words. "I have been a lot of things over the years, Monsignor Leopold. At one time I was a blacksmith, at another I scribed for the church. Perhaps at some later date, we can peruse the other books and such I have here."

Monsignor Leopold was at a loss for words. A bible such as this was worth an astronomical sum of money. _It also represents a lot of faith in more ways then one, too._ He would find some way to use this bible for the good of the monastery, but he decided that selling it was not an option. He stopped in his tracks when he realized something was different. Brother Timothy's voice no longer cut like a knife…it was almost human…..

Brother Timothy was amused at these _fonts_ that could be found. In no time, he had hundreds of fonts and variations on his hard drive. He had spent a few hours typing in them, but it at last began to get boring. A little bit of rummaging in his study turned up several nibs of varying ages and some ink that would do nicely. A short while later he was in an open alcove at the monastery. It was fortunate he had brought some disposable sheets for practice, because he discovered he was way out of practice. It was like any other skill practiced for a long time though; once you learned it, it was still there. He clamped a piece of modern day vellum to his stand and started writing. It took some time, but he was finally finished. It was an illuminated page of text which was not much more then a missive. He did not realize he had an audience until he turned around. Brother Carl looked at the sheet. "That is absolutely beautiful!" The few other monks watching agreed. "Why is there a blank area in the corner though?" "That was where a picture or such would go to enforce the text written. Illuminated bibles were masterpieces, but since most of the people were illiterate, the picture would be there to convey the equivalent meaning." More monks gathered, including Brother Andrew. "Good day, Brother Andrew!" "Greetings, Brother Timothy." Brother Andrew hesitantly extracted a page form the sheaf he was carrying. "Would a picture such as this do for an illustration?" Brother Timothy was surprised. The workmanship of the picture was excellent. "That would be perfect, Brother Andrew. " By the time things were sorted out, Brother Timothy had agreed to show three more monks how to scribe. _What purpose will this serve?_ The inner voice within him was still there, bitter though no longer as strident. Brother Timothy shook his head. _I really don't know, but it sure beats raining havoc down upon those who transgress, doesn't it….._

**Vicinity of Vardo, Norway**

Norway is the western most area of what is called Scandinavia. Though it is a land of rich legend, the modern day Norway was nothing like the Norway of old. Vardo was near the northern tip of Norway; though it had some inhabitants, most of those were birds and what polar creatures could be found. Most of the year, it was not accessible at least by sea because of the danger of calving glaciers floating around. There still were some who braved the dangerous ocean in that area though; there was a possibility of finding oil or other valuable resources. The ship picked its way across the ocean a few miles off shore. Despite its relative small size, the ship had the means to resist any chunks of ice floating her way. The captain at the helm was eyeing one especially large chunk of ice floating in the water. He did not pay them much mind; one iceberg was the same as another. His first mate notified him on the ship phone that there was something to see regarding this berg. The captain's hard skepticism gave way to incredulity. There was something stuck in the iceberg, and it looked human! He called his shipmates together to discuss the matter. Was it possible that they could extract their find with the equipment on board? It turned out that they had what they needed.

As quickly as possible, they set to work on the iceberg. It took nearly two days to cut their find from the larger berg. Once the smaller piece was on the ship, the crew made short work of any excess surrounding the human they had found. It looked to be a dark haired male dressed like the Vikings of old. In addition to the body and armor, there were other objects also encased in the ice. They moved the block of ice to a cold storage chamber with very little humidity. They then set to work cutting the body free of its icy prison. They had removed most of the icy prison from the corpse, but the captain knew that he would have to leave the finer work to professionals.

_He had been cold for as long as he remembered. He had chosen this path so that he could stay alive. He had been outnumbered in the battle. He long ago had divorced his survival from the concept of bravery; he felt no remorse at taking the path that he did. He first breath was sheer agony, but the pain lessened with every inhalation. The pain of his frozen limbs also rapidly abated. It took several tries before he could sit up. His ax made short work of what was left of his icy prison. He reveled in the warmth of wherever he was, though only for a moment. There was some sort of transparent wall in this room, and he saw people watching him. He needed to find Ardis as soon as possible; Ardis was always better at explaining some things…._

**THE END….**


End file.
